


Nom De Guerre

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: AU, Alternate Universes, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, challenge, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-22
Updated: 1999-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 47,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Second World War, OSS Officer James Ellison is airdropped to meet with French Resistance Fighters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

## Nom De Guerre

By Taleya

Author's homepage: <http://www.fortunecity.com/lavendar/brett/283/index.html>

During the Second World War, OSS officer James Ellison is airdropped to make contact with a group of Maquis fighters in occupied France. 

WARNINGS: This is not a nice story. It contains the death of canonical characters. It contains torture, rape, and the indomitable power of love and simple humanity. Occupied France during World War Two was not a nice place. Forget Hogan's Heroes, forget Dad's Army and ignore 'Allo 'Allo. They are all bullshit. The real world during those times was full of death and suffering and the greatest evil ever produced by mankind. It was also the place of unbelievable acts of courage and humanity. Although I took liberty with the characters, the places in this story actually happened. In Vercors, 21 July 1944, 500 Maquis were massacred when a German plane took the place of expected Allied supplies. Between that day and the 31 of July, the SS systematically burned and murdered everything in the area, resistance and civilian. And yet, you never find it listed in a book of war. 

Dedicated to the men and women of the French resistance, from those who actively participated in the FFI, to the families that took in Jewish children and adopted them as their own. Their story goes largely unsung, but they still remain heroes of the war. 

* * *

Nom De Guerre - part one  
By Taleya 

It started with a death. 

One death he might have been able to handle, mourn his loss, go on, perhaps grow stronger. But then there was another, and another, and another, each time his soul shrivelling a little more as he outlasted friend after friend. 

Flight Melancholy, they called it. He'd seen it happen before, watched the fresh-faced young men, straight from the academy warping, as if under some evil spell, watched as they quickly became disillusioned and weathered, slowly turning cold inside until there was nothing left, just an outer shell, warm, perhaps even capable of loving, but when you looked into their eyes you saw the souls of the damned screeching from the inky depths. 

Ellison himself had fought against the coldness, terrified of the darkness, desperately wrapping his heart around a precious center, keeping it warm, keeping it alive, keeping _himself_ alive, until one death too many pushed him over and opened him to the void. 

Jack Pendergast, an old friend, the man who'd seen him through his flight training, recommended him for OSS. The man who had damn well been a better father figure to him than William Ellison ever was. 

Dead. 

Roasted in a crippled plane he'd tried to ride down, one wing sheared off, the engine faulty and coughing, sputtering and choking, the hatch jammed, trapping him inside as the flames licked the control panel, tasted his flesh. 

And Leftenant James Ellison had seen every second of it, almost as if he was wearing binoculars. He had seen the craggy face twist as Jack swore, seen one gloved hand beat at the flames while the other fought to control the bucking craft. 

Seen the look of final resignation that had crossed Jack's face approximately two seconds before the plane slammed into the tarmac and exploded. 

And then Jim had walked away, back to his cold, lonely single quarters, where he found a plain brown telegram message waiting for him. 

Danny was dead too. Killed by a radical group who didn't like his ancestry in the current climate. 

Jim dully re-read the printed words, then let the paper drop to the floor as he stared mindlessly at his wrinkled old picture of Lana Turner on the wall. Death on death, the two men he considered family - hard won positions in the heart of the lone wolf - gone. 

Jim walked out of the compound, rules, regulations be damned, wandering shocked and dazed through streets, feet taking him nowhere and everywhere, eventually ending up outside the door of a little flat in Portobello road, above the shops, his soul needing the desperate reaffirmation of life his wife could give him in a single, sacred act. 

And then he pushed the door open, and the last struggling flame of his spirit died, swamped out by an ocean of betrayal. 

Caroline, his wife. She'd come with him to England, promising eternal faithfulness, and now he'd found her sprawled on her back, the sheets on their marital bed bunched in her claw-like hands as she spread her legs for some blond young fly-boy. 

"Carol?" That wasn't his voice, so strangled and weak-sounding. Not the voice of Leftenant Ellison, trained fighter, veteran fly boy, decorated soldier and new OSS operative. It wasn't. 

"Jimmy!!" Caroline didn't even attempt to excuse herself, too far gone in a drunken state to do more than giggle. The fly-boy jumped to his feet on seeing Ellison's rank, standing at attention, shirt rucked up around his chest, pants around his ankles, erection still standing proud and full like some sort of obscure flagpole. 

Jim walked out. Turned his back. Left his wife to her to her fun, left her to their home, left her to anything she damn well pleased, purposeful now, heading back to the base and signing up for the first available mission to certain death, the death of his physical body only, because his soul had withered and died in the face of those three betrayals. He trained mindlessly, learning by rote the moves, perfecting that which was already deeply ingrained, every waking moment occupied, keeping him busy, keeping his mind away from the truth. 

On his last night, he picked up some worn out cockney tart. Groping blindly in the blackout shelter, pushing her tattered, stockinged legs apart, grunting, sweating, fucking like a rooting animal. 

And then when it was over, he dropped his money on the bed and walked away, colder inside than he had ever felt before. 

_Christ, let me die._

* * *

The engines of the Fortress vibrated through him, sending each nerve shivering, until he wasn't sure if he was shaking from the anticipation of the coming mission, or just because of the plane. 

No map. No gun. Civilian clothes. This wasn't a game. If he was caught, he die. Most probably very badly, screaming his lungs out as the nazi's methodically tore him apart to get at the secrets in his brain. The names of the group he was meeting. Three names only, all they ever knew, so that three people were all that were killed if they were caught. And they would be killed. Quickly, in a hail of bullets escaping the patrols if they were lucky. Slowly and agonisingly in a mass of electrodes and beatings and parades for the Fatherland if they weren't. 

"Approaching drop site." The warning from the rear gunner, relayed through the headset jerked him out of his reverie. Jim rose on shaky legs, staggering against the buffering of the plane as he slid open the door. A one-second warning, then he was pushing himself out, hands gripping the edges of the doorframe and thrusting, pumping, until there was nothing but the empty air beneath him. 

He heard and felt the movements behind him as the other two followed. Serris and Keating. SOE and FFI respectively, he'd barely known the men a few scant days in training. Enough to see their faces, know their quirks, enough to trust them with his paltry life - if he even held such a thing in value any more. 

The rushing of air filled his ears, followed by the sensation of weightlessness. Looking down at the dark countryside below him, Ellison counted the seconds off. Five, ten...pull the cord. 

The sudden shift as the parachute unfolded, jerking him to one side saved his life. 

Below them, the suddenly quiet countryside came to life, the flare from burpguns sparking between trees as a deadly hail sprayed the sky. He felt the metal whisper close to his cheek, burring through his hair and let himself go limp, ignoring the dark blots of his own blood trailing past half open lids, ignoring the activity below, every iota of his being concentrating on his own death. A corpse, swaying in the breeze, unnoticed, uncontrolled as he smashed into the ground, rolling, jerking, landing hard enough to break bones if he wasn't careful, then lying there, listening to the shouted commands and short burst from the guns as his men died. Wanting, desperately needing to get to his feet and spread his arms wide, scream at the murdering bastards that here he was, come and kill me, please, but his training overriding even that fierce desire, forcing him to shimmy out of his harness, creep his way to the cover of bushes and wait until the inevitable patrol came to confirm his bloody corpse. 

The first one was killed by a quick twist of his neck, the twig-like crack oddly fitting in the wood surroundings. Then Ellison took the man's gleaming, proudly polished dress dagger and used it to slice the throat of his superior officer. Another, then another, he flitted like a silent ghost through the woods, taking them out one by one, sometimes letting them see him, just for a brief second, hoping that maybe the next one would be the one to grant him the oblivion he sought. 

But none of them did. Death does not come easily to those who covet her dark embrace. 

Covered in blood, a lone, ravenous, dangerous _dead_ creature, Ellison took the knife and headed to meet his contacts. 

Before he had made more than five steps, he heard the stealthy tread of footsteps through the woods, dry leaves and old, splintered twigs crackling ever-so-quietly in their wake. Tracking a parallel course, he trailed the wraith for a few minutes, finally circling around to a position behind as it stopped to nudge at the body of the Unterscharfuhrer Ellison had killed with a dirty boot. The corpse rolled silently, head jiggling at an odd angle, then flopped back with the peculiar sound of dead meat. 

With an uncaring snort, the figure moved on, to where the bodies of the parachute team were sprawled, bodies contorted in a stark reminder of the punishing hail of bullets that had riddled their bodies. 

"Merde!" Jim jerked back at the sound of the other man's voice, dark and rich in timbre. He saw the man squat, pressing a hand to the necks of the two men in a futile gesture, then he straightened again, shoulders heavy, gun dangling carelessly in a defeated pose. 

And then Jim made his move. 

In three quick strides he was behind the stealthy figure, knife drawn and at the other man's throat. But his hand stayed before it made the final stream of blood stain the ground as he took in his captive. Took in the decidedly non-German cheapshit dimestore Sten in his hands. Took in the raggedness of the man's clothes. But most importantly took in the colour of his skin. It would be a cold day in hell before Hitler started allowing _black_ men into his beloved Wehrmacht. 

"Who are you?" he whispered into the nearest ear. 

No reply, although he could feel the man's pulse thudding wildly through the veins in his neck, almost _hear_ the frantic beat. Risking movement, Jim took the man's gun in his hands, shifting back and away before circling to meet his face. 

The big man's dark eyes took in every movement, eyes scanning and cataloguing him, although his lips remained silent. Jim risked the first contact. "Adric." 

The man's eyes widened and he finally spoke, his rich voice supplying the corresponding code-word. "Nyssa. " 

With a short nod, Jim handed the man back his Sten. "The others are dead. " He stated the fact coldly, ignoring the faint stab of pain he felt at the words, the mourning of too many deaths, two more added to the hellish roll-call. Keating, a hoary old bastard with a penchant for cracking obscene French jokes at inappropriate times, and Serris...Christ, just the other day he was showing Jim the latest pictures of his baby girl Veronica... 

"The rest of the patrol?" the other man's voice broke through to him. 

"Dead. All of them. " No pride, just a cold statement of fact. His men died. The Germans were in his way. He killed them. End of story. 

The man nodded, then scurried over, rifling through the dead's packs for food and medicines, ammunitions, and Jim cursed for not doing it himself. Ammunitions rarely lasted long in the resistance, even on the rare occasions when the dropoffs from the Allies were in the right place. Food was scavenged from wherever it could be found, same for medical supplies. He had to stop expecting new supplies from the quartermaster, courtesy of Uncle Sam. He was in a war zone now, and what he lived on was what he could get his hands on, nothing more. 

Between the two of them, Jim and the other man - who's name he learned was Joel Taggert - had the bodies stripped of all useful supplies in less than an hour, bedecked with guns, packs stuffed with blankets, food, canteens, medical supplies and munitions. Stuffing a Luger in the waistband of his pants, Ellison followed the larger man as he slipped through the woods, creeping over roads and into the hills. 

At a certain point, Joel stopped.  Jim looked around. He could see nothing, hear nothing but the quiet of the night surrounding them. 

Then Joel whistled and there were people. 

They appeared around him like ghosts.  Not surprising really, the very nature of their existence was to fight from the inside, erode the jackboot of occupied control. Men and women filtered out from the trees at Joel's soft call, of all ages and races. From a big burly black Captain close to forty, to a slender dark haired white girl. 

Ellison took in the smallest man, the youngest of them all. Not physically \- the growth of beard on his face was more than enough evidence of his manhood - but mentally, spiritually. Something about the way he moved, a certain look in his face spoke of an innocence taken, but not entirely lost. Jim felt that he could stand there forever, watching the casual grace of the young man as he shifted through the mass of people. He'd never been one for the opposite sex, but something about the kid would have tempted an angel. Soft brown hair, long and unkempt after too long fighting hidden battles, powdered with dirt and dust, mortar from destroyed buildings. The oversized shirt, looking like it had been stolen from a dead nazi, stuffed into pants cut too long and hacked off with a dull knife. 

The simple leather band on one wrist caught his eye and he followed it, eyes tracking the movement as the attached hand pushed back a heavy mop of hair. For one moment, he was caught on the jagged scar marring the beauty on one side, then his eyes were torn away by their own volition, hungry for more, skittering up and around to lock with the other man's incredible blue eyes. 

A wealth of wisdom resided in those sombre depths, the portals to the soul. Sorrow too, and an unendurable weariness, tired of killing, tired of death, a spirit longing for peace and love, and an _ending_ to all the madness going on around them. 

Jim reached out and ran a hand down the side of the other man's face, reaching out as if to brush some dirt aside, hand movement changing mid-air, cupping the strong jaw in his hand, brushing the tips of his fingers across the softly bristled cheek. The young man leaned into the caress, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from the dark-haired woman behind him, turning his head to brush the full lips against Ellison's palm. 

And it happened. A thrill, a tingle, completion, coming together, like the final lost piece of the jigsaw puzzle slotting into place, each knew they had suddenly found the other half. 

But, like the fool Caroline had always claimed he was, Jim let his hand fall away from the soft skin and stepped back, passing the moment by, trying not to notice the sudden flash of - of what? Longing? Desire? Disappointment? Sorrow? - that crossed the smaller man's face. 

Someone slapped Jim heartily on the back and he stumbled a little, gritting his teeth at the coarse laughter at his expense. He resisted the urge to pound the slapper into the dirt.  James Ellison was no man's fool. 

Remembering his briefing, he forced himself to unwind a little.  These were people living on the edge, sometimes past it.  They had a hard life, and they relished the few moments of living they did have.  It was of no use holding a grudge against someone who might save your life the next minute, then be dead tomorrow. 

He talked to each one, got to know their assumed identities, never the real ones, each face and name revealing a group of men and women intricately bound by fate into a single, solid unit. 

The leader, Simon Banks, a big black man who moved like a dancer, a scholar in a previous life, a man of peace who had swapped his books for guns and bombs in the name of freedom. 

Brian Rafe, SOE, sent behind the lines like Jim to meet up with the resistance, wreak sabotage and generally hinder the enemy wherever he could. Jim shook his hand firmly, one professional to another, equal ranks, equal purposes. Different countries, but working for the same purpose to protect the Allied Nations. Rafe's soft accent smacked of somewhere other than England, and it took Jim a while to place the South African tones. He wondered at the insanity of the war, that had this man in France, instead of fighting Rommel in the African campaign. 

Megan Conner, an Australian nurse stationed in France, who decided to risk her life in the fight against the travesty staining Europe rather than return to her safe, peaceful home. Jim found her one of the more intriguing of the group, her hair tossed carelessly over her shoulder as she grinned broadly and jammed out a bruised hand for him to shake. A real woman, unlike the prissy facades all too common at home or England, her down to earth honesty was a welcome respite. 

Henri Brown, musician in a jazz group, another who decided to stay and fight, rather than turn tail and run. Ironically becoming the only survivor, as the rest of his band were killed when their plane was shot down attempting to escape Vichy airspace. 

Sam Keely, a woman who had fought through the death camps and massacres, clawed her way from one place to another, until there was nothing left but the desire to kill and kill until she was dead. A dangerous woman, Jim noted, one of the kind that could - and would - do anything. Because she had nothing left to lose. A lot like himself, in many respects. His eyes narrowed as he took in the possessive grip she had on the young man's \- Blair's - arm, gun at the ready as if to face down any challenges to her property. Blair seemed to suffer through it out of weariness rather than any real sexual motivation. 

And then Blair Sandburg himself. 

Another escapee from the camps, he had trekked his way to where he had heard there were pockets of free people fighting back. That was all he said, but something in his eyes, in the eyes of the others, told Jim that there had to be more. 

But he didn't get the chance to ask, as Joel dragged him around the camp, introducing him, making sure that everyone knew his face and name. For otherwise, to be an unknown person in a resistance camp, it would mean death. They couldn't afford anything otherwise. Serena Chang was in charge of the meal. A Gypsy who escaped the rounding up of her people, she had fought longer than all of them. Serena had been hiding in the mountains, terrified of capture while many of the others were still able to sleep in a warm bed and eat a full meal. Yet somehow in the face of all this she had retained her spirit, offering him a hot meal from the pot of scavenged goods, a place by the fire, fussing and clucking over him like an elderly grandmother instead of a hardened fighter. 

An arm slammed in front of Jim before he could take the offered plate, dirt scrawled up over firm muscles like fine calligraphy. He followed the arm up to the flat brown eyes of the woman, Sam. "Why should we feed him?" she asked the group as a whole, jerking her head towards Ellison in a curt movement. "What proof do we have he's not a spy for the boch?" 

Joel grinned easily, teeth flashing white against the growing shadows as he reached around the irate woman and snagged a plate of his own. "Six dead Germans in the forest by the drop site," he shrugged. "One man with a bloody knife. Proof for me." There were murmurs of assent, and Sam backed down, but the lingering look she gave the Leftenant as she returned to her haunt by Sandburg promised a later continuation. 

Jim took a seat by the fire and took the offered food, a little amazed by how easily the others accepted him. He'd heard about it, but never experienced it. The Maquis took people in, made hard friendships, loved hard, and cried hard when fleeting acquaintances died. Then they started all over again. 

As if by some unknown call, they all started to take seats around the fire, sitting on the soft moss or half-rotted tree trunks as they scooped up the thick soup and listened to his plans, the information he had risked his life for, the planned drops of weapons, key objectives, targets to aim for. He drew his maps in the dirt, discussing strategies, numbers, all the time, unable to take his eyes off the slight, long haired youth on the other side of the campfire, watching the luminous blue eyes above the hideous scar tracking his every move. 

Banks finally told Jim Blair's full story that night, when all the others were asleep and only they two were still awake, keeping watch. The flickering shadows from the fire licked exotic patterns over his ebony skin as in a strange, disconnected voice - the only way one could tell such horrors and even hope to keep their sanity - he had told the story of a desperate young man taking the only avenue he could. Watching his family murdered around him, until only his mother survived, frail and sickly in one of the cattle cars. 

Jim had listened, and felt like weeping for the first time since his soul died, feeling something new and tender grow to take it's place as he heard of the beautiful young man whoring himself, selling his body to the highest nazi bidder, using the position to protect what was left of his family, only to have even that small hope crumple into ashes as his mother sickened and died anyway. 

Blair shifted uneasily in his sleep, and Simon eased the curly head into his lap, long fingers stroking soothing patterns along the fine cheekbones until he slipped into an easier sleep. The gesture of affection, such tenderness from such a large man should have stunned Ellison, but it didn't, the tableau touching him somewhere he never knew existed. The thought that _this_ was what the nazis wanted to destroy, to burn, torture, maim and kill sent a cold anger through his soul and he clenched a rock in his hand, the exterior pain a sharp relief from the turmoil within as Simon continued the story. 

Trapped, alone, Blair's own purpose for his position was spent, but the General was reluctant to part with his toy. The rapes, the 'sharing' the high ranking officer did with his honoured guests. And yet something within Blair had refused to die. He had plotted and planned, favourite pet of the General, waiting until the time was right, then had taken a knife, scarring his own face, marring his beauty, making himself unacceptable and useless in the all-judging eyes of his 'master. ' 

And so it was back to the cattle cars, back to the endless waiting, back to the sickness and starvation, but this time he went with an anger, a fire that he was determined to use to burn every nazi he could, to fight, claw, bite, scream, wreak his revenge on the people determined to wipe out his race. 

Hiding his scar in the shadows of the car, the moon lighting the perfection of his face, that soft, deep, impassioned voice, honed after too long serving a German master encouraging the sole SS soldier without, bored and waiting with an eye for some action, to come inside, where he was immediately set upon by broken, desperate, needy victims determined to have this last shred of freedom offered. 

Five thousand people deemed 'undesirable' escaped into a night sky thick with bullets from the waiting Germans. 

Some of them even made it out alive. 

Among the living were Sam, Simon and Blair. 

* * *

The next day, Jim sought the smaller man out, finding him seated under a tree, pieces of a Sten scattered around him as he slowly cleaned out the chamber with a rag, an undefinably sad look on his face, as though performing a vile, but necessary duty. 

Ellison took in the battered metal stock of the gun and the worn grip. The weapon had seen a lot of action. "Sandburg?" 

He looked up, brushing an errant lock of hair out of his eyes. Some how those few thick strands had escaped the roughly knotted strip of cloth that served as a hairtie, and danced merrily around the elfin face in a slight breeze. Jim wanted to reach out and touch that coil, to see if it felt as soft as it looked, but took a seat instead, shifting a little as a stone dug into his thigh. "You're good at that," he indicated the weapon the other man was re-assembling as they spoke. 

"I wish I wasn't." Blair slotted the loading spring back into the barrel and tested the recoil before screwing the entire assembly back into the end of the stock. His pained, barely whispered words cut the conversation to an abrupt end. 

Jim tried again. "So where's the better half?" Blair blinked at him. "You know, the old ball and chain? Your wife?" He was getting nowhere, and the other man looked more and more bewildered, so he switched languages. "Ta femme?" 

Blair shook his head, confused. "Sorry?" Realisation dawned and his eyes opened wide. "Oh. Sam?? You think Sam is -" he shook his head, chuckling as he attached the wide strip of the sten shoulder holster to the weapon by two battered clips. "No, no. Sam is _not_ my wife. She's..a friend. A good friend, we studied together. Before the war." He tested the loading spring on his sten again, and the firing trigger before slotting a magazine into the sub-machine gun and slinging it over his shoulder. "We should get back," he flowed gracefully to his feet and extended a hand to where Ellison was still seated on the ground. "We'll be leaving for Grenoble soon, and then onto Vassieux." 

Jim looked at the slender hand extended to him, dark with grease and dirt. Hard and callused, nothing like the soft smooth hands that his wife had... 

Jim grabbed hold of the hand and scrambled to his feet. He looked down for a moment, into the smaller man's eyes, the emotions written so plainly there for all the world to see. Windows into the soul - truly for this man. This man that drew him in when he was alone, offering friendship. Or was it something else? 

With a start, Jim realised he was still holding the Maquisard's hand. Blair followed his gaze, and a little smile frittered at the edges of his mouth. Unhurriedly he reclaimed his hand, then the two men set off back to the camp in companionable silence, back to where the others were already preparing to leave. 

* * *

The journey to Grenoble went suspiciously without incident. Jim's instincts screamed against it as his body fell into the familiar rote of left, right, left, right, and he strained his hearing, sure that somewhere over the babble of soft talk and scuffling feet he would hear the ominous clank and roar of a tank. 

Blair walked beside him, his wiry body easily keeping pace through the sloping paths, occasionally grounding Ellison by an off-hand remark, or a casual brush of his hand, brought together when the motions of their walking bodies intersected at the right time. Caught up in their own little worlds, neither of the men noticed Serena and Megan walking behind them, broad grins and whispered conversations travelling between the two women. 

"So you're from America?" Jim had to congratulate the younger man on his English. A faint trace of his native French accent coloured the words, but it was English, real English, the kind with contractions and turns, not the cultured exact pronunciation of someone who had learned it in college. 

"Yeah. Ever been to the States?" 

"Me? No." Blair idly kicked a stray pebble. "I have been to England though. Before the war, we used to go across the channel to see the London Zoo. I was only small, though. I'd like to go again, maybe. After the war." 

After the war. It was a catchcry of hope. Everyone had something they wanted to do after the war. Go home, go somewhere else, do something, anything, as long as it was away from where they were at the moment. A lot of the young men at the airfield used to tuck little pictures into their flight jackets, kissing their loved ones, dream of the girl they were going to marry, 'after the war'. Then they would go out and kill other people, and if they returned, take their little pictures out and dream again. 

"There isn't much left of London," The words slipped out of his mouth, far more bitter than he had expected them to be. It was true. The blitz had left a ruin of buildings, and yet there was still that little cry of hope. Things'll be better, we'll get it all back. Just you wait and see. After the war. 

Ellison wondered what was left for _him,_ after the war. 

Then he remembered. 

"So what about you?" 

Blair blinked up at him, a grin playing on the sides of his mouth. "Je suis Francais," he said patiently, eyes wide with innocence. 

Despite himself, Jim felt an answering grin creep across his own face, washing the dark reflection away a little. "I _know_ that. Where?" 

"LaBarre." Blair booted another pebble. "My father was killed in the Great war. Fighting Germans." He shrugged a little. "I guess I follow in his footsteps, oui?" 

Jim looked sadly at the raggedy little figure. "Yeah." 

The rest of the journey continued in silence. 

* * *

"Ellison!" Simon's voice carried easily over the babble of excited voices as they reached Grenoble. 

Jim jogged up to the burly Captain. "Sir?" 

Banks shot him a dirty look. "Stop with the 'sir'. I want you to go over to the dump. Find yourself a sidearm. Exchange that piece of German merde for a decent weapon." He jerked his head at the gun stuffed in the waistband of Jim's pants. "I want you armed. Especially around Blair." 

"Si-what?" 

"You heard. Blair won't carry a sidearm. Half the time he won't carry his Sten. If you two are going to be joined at the hip, I want you to watch out." 

Jim shook his head. "Joined at the -?" 

Simon uttered a frustrated little growl. "Just get the damned gun." He watched the Leftenant trot off and grinned. Green as grass. It didn't matter. Pretty soon he'd be mooching and swearing with the rest of them. No one gave a shit about decorum in the Maquis - at least, not for very long. 

He felt Megan and Serena grinning behind him and turned. "What?" 

"You see it too, huh?" Megan asked rhetorically. "I think he'd be good for Sandy." 

"He isn't going to be anything as long as he's wound that tight." Simon's expression softened. "You two go find.. 'something to do.'" he said meaningfully, making flapping motions with his hands. "Shoo!" 

Serena muffed a salute at him. "Yes, SIR!" 

* * *

Jim exchanged his stolen Luger for a smoother, more streamlined Berretta, a relic from the member of another parachute team that hadn't been so lucky as him. He weighed the gun in his hand, checking it had a full clip and a clear chamber before taking it with him. Idly he wondered who it had belonged to. A trained soldier, the army his only life? Or some other man, drawn by the clarion call to fight against the evil trying to take over his world. It didn't matter anymore, he was dead and the gun now belonged to James Ellison. 

He just hoped he had better luck than its last owner. 

* * *

"Blair, Blair!" Sandburg turned at the not-so-subtle call from Serena. She was standing in the doorway to one of the houses, Megan grinning hugely behind her. The nurse made an unsuccessful attempt to swallow her glee as Chang handed a battered basket to the puzzled Maquisard. "Take this," she said in a stage whisper. 

Blair made a mou of confusion and accepted the basket, tugging back a little of the faded cloth covering its contents. "What is it?" 

Serena lightly slapped his hand away. "A present," she pressed a finger to her lips. "Take it. To him, the American, Ellison. Find a sunny spot, away from here, on the hills. Make him a nice picnic It is a -" she trailed off, searching her limited English for the right word. 

"Welcome wagon," Megan supplied, grinning so hard her head was in danger was falling off. "Soften him up a bit before Reseau Merle show up. Lull him into a false sense of security so those smelly little vagrants don't scare him off." 

Blair chuckled and swung the basket between his hands. "Ok," he whispered conspiratorially, returning the women's grins. "Can't lose him so fast, can we?" Basket banging against his hip, he made his way over to where Jim was standing alone, scanning the horizon. 

"Jim?" Ellison didn't turn, still staring at the skyline. "Ellison? Leftenant?" Blair cautiously poked one solid shoulder and jumped back as the other man snapped around. 

"Blair?" There was an odd expression on his face. Wariness, anger, and some fear. The hungry eyes of a jungle predator. Blair took another step back before it, holding the basket up as a shield. 

"Picnic?" he offered in a small voice. 

* * *

The hot spring sun beat down on them, and Blair tilted his head up, like a daisy. With a sigh of contentment he pulled off his shirt in a single, graceful movement and laid back into the soft grass. Jim followed suit, shoving his own shirt under the back of his neck as a crude pillow. Sneaking a glance over at the other man, he stared, hypnotised at the dense mat of chest hair, eyes skittering over the two brown nipples then slipping lower, and he burst out laughing. 

Blair looked down at his too-big pants, hiked high to his breastbone and bound there with a rope. "What?" he sat up and stared at the sniggering Leftenant. He had the feeling he should have taken offence at this grand man laughing at the only set of clothes he had, but decided he liked the sound of that full-bodied laughter too much. "Don't laugh, this is the height of Parisian Fashion!" Scrambling to his feet, he walked a short way down the hill, waggling his ass exaggeratedly as Jim's sniggers turned to howls. 

With a graceful turn, the Maquisard minced back and stopped halfway, legs braced, one hand playing with his rope belt. "You like zis, yes?" he drawled in a perfect imitation of the English parody of his native accent. "Maybee I show you more, American?" Tugging on his belt, he loosened it a little and threw his head back, hands on hips as he wiggled back to where Jim was helplessly clutching his stomach, tears pouring down his face. 

He was a step away when the belt dropped, and his trousers fell around his ankles, baring his ass to the French countryside and his private parts to a wide-eyed Ellison. 

"Merde!" With a strangled curse he tripped and fell as the pants caught his feet, landing flat on top of Jim. There was a confused jumble of arms and legs, and then he pushed himself up, propped on forearms either side of the older man, painfully aware of the way his suddenly awake penis was brushing the other's. 

He tried to push himself up on his hands, only to have his palm slip on a patch of loose earth and send him crashing back down. Jim grunted at the added pressure, then shivered as the intimate contact to his groin sent little spiderlegs scurrying along his entire nervous system. 

Blair felt a tentative bulge beginning in the clothing under him, and with an odd, almost shy smile, moved again, experimentally, feeling it harden under him. He watched delicate eyelids close over bright blue eyes, then Jim moaned, biting into his lower lip. Blair moved again, then the eyes flew open, hot with arousal, and Jim's arms were coming up around him. "Oh, god..." 

Pants were suddenly an unbearable pressure to the Leftenant, hauled off hastily and clumsily by two sets of hands to catch around boots and left dangling as he darted upward to taste the inviting mouth hovering over his own. An explosion of tastes met him, a slight metal tang from the canteen water, some sweat, all rolling around and surround by another, stronger taste. Tasting Blair. 

Blair felt strong hands weave lovingly through his hair as their tongues duelled, a moist intruder welcomed and greeted, offered a place of refuge as he searched for more of that taste that was exploding over him. Jim Jim and more Jim. He felt a movement at his groin, along his entire body, desperate and needy, and old as time itself and responded, wanting more and more, it could never be enough, not with this man, he didn't know how, and he didn't know why. He didn't care either, just knowing that it was needed, a joining, an act of love in a time and a world where all there seemed to be was hate.  
  

Jim couldn't believe he was doing this. He was actually doing this. The straight man who never even looked at another guy, kept all the social rules and strictures, dated all the pretty girls and left 'em in the dust until he found the right one and settled down was frantically humping himself against another man, holding him tight, as if letting go in some way meant losing the warm, strong, muscular form that was jerking against him, with him. A crimson haze obscured his vison, blocking out all rational thought, blocking out everything except the urge to fuck and fuck and fuck until his dick fell off. 

With primal howls, each found release, the hot fluid foaming and roiling, trapped between their bodies to smear against flesh already slick with sweat. Breathing was optional, air snatched between hungry kisses and explorations of each other. 

The frantic movements slowed, and Blair drew back a little, raising his head, searching the other man's eyes for something undefinable. Wanted. Needed. 

And found it. 

They began to move again, this time finding a rythmn, the initial release taking the edge off their desperate hunger, making way to a slow, gentle loving, the glide of skin against skin as if they were made for each other, mouths brushing, meeting, then locking together as they moved, sharing breaths, or maybe not even sharing breaths, the other's presence all each man needed at this point in time and space. 

With a gentle sigh, Blair came, head arching back, feeling Jim's hands cup his head, thumbs stroking just below his ears. Bowing his head again, he rested his forehead on the strong chest, then looked up, and the smoky desire and arousal, the pure _love_ shining from the cerulean depths blew Jim away, ripping straight from his feet to his groin, and then out of his body in a seemingly never-ending stream. 

* * *

Later, they reclined on the grass and opened the basket, astonished by what Serena and Megan had managed to scavenge. Some cheese, fruit, even a little bread. Some traded from local farms, some taken from ambushed supply trucks destined for fat Wehrmacht generals. There was even a bottle of wine, a rarity to be treasured, and each man resolved to make it up to the two women. Sprawled on the soft grass, feeding each other, they pretended there was no war, no death, just the two of them, the only people in a perfect world as they kissed, almost playful, trying to ignore the necessary guns that were a constant reminder of the fragility of their dream. 

Jim lounged in Blair's lap, occasionally lunging up to lazily snatch a choice piece of food from the other man's hand, each finger being suckled in turn before he returned to his soft pillow of strong thigh. He was working his way up to the smaller man's wrist when a sound caught his ears. He paused, ignoring the puzzled inquiry from above his head, finally identifying the source. Soldiers. And they sure as shit weren't the resistance. 

"Jim?" Blair leant down, brushing his lips against the short hair, only to draw back as the Leftenant sat bolt upright. Reaching for his clothes without another word, the older man began pulling them on, movements sharp and quick. 

"Jim?"  His voice quavered, although he tried to steel it, fear blossoming into relief as his lover turned to face him, eyes warm and tender from a face set in stone. Then the single word that slipped from his lips brought back the fear. "Germans." 

Blair didn't hear anything, but imediately snatched up his gun, dragging his pants up with his left hand, gun ready in the right. "Where?" 

"East." Jim cocked his hearing, finding it less of a stretch, the low muted voices and soft treads closer to their position now. "A patrol, sounds like." 

Blair took his arm, tugging him to the shelter of one of many rocks dotting the hillside. "Hide," he whispered. "If they're a scout, they're looking for us, the Maquis. Maybe they won't-" 

A shot rang out, sending slivers of rocks flying from their barricade. "Or maybe they will." Jim clenched the grip of his sten a little more firmly in his hand, then rolled out to one side, keeping low to the ground, spraying a quick burst at the targets he saw approaching. Targets, that's all they were. Not men, not the freckle-faced blond and dark-haired teenager types that were too goddamned young to die. They had weapons, and they were using them. That made them targets. Nothing more, nothing less. Not if you wanted to keep your sanity. 

Or your life. 

Jim watched the bullets bounce harmlessly off a nest of boulders in front of them. They were too high up on the hill, and the angle was too steep. For all the good they were doing, the two men may as well have been throwing cream pies and insults. 

Blair nudged his shoulder and pointed at a little knot of boulders set in a point about twenty feet in front of them. 

"Down there," he whispered, the sound somehow carrying easily of the noise of battle. "We can get a shot from down there." 

Ellison shook his head.  Twenty feet of unprotected ground - rough ground at that. It would slow them down and they would be dead before they even made it halfway. "I don't think -" 

But the kid wasn't listening to him, he was taking his opening, darting between the boulders dotting the hill, zig-zagging from one to the other, finally slamming into the point of a grouping of three. "SANDBURG!!" Jim watched helplessly as the impossibly small figure stood rock steady in the face of the shells pulverising his safe haven, calmly and coolly taking aim and firing, again and again, full lips moving soundlessly in a prayer for forgiveness as man after man fell in front of his onslaught. 

Bellowing his rage as a returned shot came too close, Jim stood, lobbing grenade after grenade overarm, watching them roll like obscene eggs down the sparse vegetation. He was a perfect target, proud, tall, uncaring, invincible. He would live. He _had_ to live. 

Because death would not hold Sandburg. And the prospect of Ellison drifting through eternity without him was fucking **UNACCEPTABLE.**

Snatching up his gun, he ran down the hill, long legs eating up the distance as he sprayed a covering fire until he fell on his knees beside Sandburg in the tiny knot of rock that seemed barely large enough to hold one. Between the grenades and the deadly hail from the twin Stens the patrol retreated, more than half their number dead. 

Jim reloaded his weapon and raised it at the retreating men, but Blair knocked it aside. "Leave them," he whispered. "They're going, gone. Nothing to fight for. Please." 

Jim looked from the last figures to his new-found lover and nodded, swinging his gun to the ground as he ran desperate hands over the trembling figure. "Are you ok?" he demanded. "Hurt?" Blair shook his head, shivering as reaction set in. "Dammit Sandburg, if you ever do anything like that again!" Jim cut himself off and hauled the smaller man into his arms, bringing him close for a desperately fearful kiss. 

Blair made a mewling, needy noise in his throat, leaning into the long hands entangled in his hair, turning his head side to side, exploring, tasting, taking, giving, over and over, then drawing away, jerking, eyes looking down, then closing, face twisting in agony as reality intruded. "I killed them..." 

Blair staggered away, throwing up, over and over, every inch of that marvellous, scavenged, interrupted picnic expelling itself, leaving him retching and convulsing under dry heaves for so long that Jim started to be afraid. Hesitantly he came up behind the wretched figure, one hand reaching out to rub steadying circles on the strong back while he murmured reassurances. "It's ok, bebe," he soothed softly in French, finally coming closer to wrap his arms around the shaking figure. "It's ok, it's all right, shh, shh. " 

Blair leaned back into the embrace, hands coming up desperately to cling to the strong arms encircling him as he sobbed. _"IT'S NOT ALL RIGHT!!"_ He screamed the words into the sky, and the Leftenant flinched. "I killed them.." Blair whispered softly with an agonised glance to the bodies on the grass. "Jim, I, oh god, oh god, little boys, they were only little boys, they could have been men, but oh god, I killed them, I killed them..." 

"Blair..." Ellison tried desperately to get through to the smaller man, his large hands wrapping around the smaller ones, trying to rub warmth into suddenly chilled flesh. But Sandburg was almost catatonic, words of penance falling rapidly from his lips as wide blue eyes stared off into the distance. Panicked now, Jim lifted a hand to slap the smaller man, but his arm dropped down, far short of its goal. He could never raise his hand to mar the precious skin, even in a situation like this. Slinging his Sten over his shoulder, Jim picked up Blair, cradling him to his chest, holding him close, all senses on alert, expanding outward and outward, searching, hunting for any sign of the enemy as he headed for the safety of the Reseau. 

* * *

Megan met them at the perimeter, dropping smoothly from the tree as her shift as lookout ended, stepping forwards and pulling the guns from Jim's body. "Is Sandy all right?" she pressed a hand to Blair's forehead, scurrying to keep up as Jim strode to their house. "What happened?" 

 "Germans." Jim replied tersely. 

"Bloody hell!" Megan was tugging at the arms Blair had wrapped around himself. "Is he hit? Sandy, let me see." 

"No, he's not hit, he just..." Ellison stopped dead in the middle of the street, at a loss, turning left and right. 

Megan suddenly stilled. "He killed some of them, didn't he?" she asked quietly. "The young ones." 

 Ellison locked eyes with her and Conner shivered. No longer the flat pools of a killer with his soul teetering on the edge of oblivion, but warm, desperate, pleading with her. "Help him..." he held his arms out, offering his lover like a child with a treasured possesion. " _Please_ " 

 The nurse opened her mouth, but it was Simon who spoke. "Bring him in here." He opened the door to the little house and Jim followed him like a frightened dog, stumbling and nearly falling over the doorstep because his entire focus was on his lover. 

 The Leftenant was barely aware of the rooms around them as Simon led him through the house to the bedroom. Some part of his mind told him he should know the way, he had chosen it, not out of any pleasing aesthetic values, but because it was on the edge of the town, teetering near the roadway entry, close to the action, close to where his death would be waiting when the German came storming in. 

 Blair hooked an arm around his neck, holding on tight, and suddenly Jim wanted another place to stay. Up the other end of Grenoble. Somewhere other than France, Europe, or anywhere the war was. 

 He knew the bedroom now and didn't question why as Simon pulled back the covers on Ellison's own bed. It was obvious to anyone, the love between them. Like a beacon. "What's wrong with him?" he repeated helplessly. 

 "He gets like this after battle," Simon said softly in reply. "He doesn't like to kill. " 

 Jim nestled the crumpled figure deep in the soft mattress, piling the covers on high. "None of us like it," he said sharply, ice eyes coming up to pierce the older man. Blair whimpered and one hand darted to grip the large one stroking his forehead. "But we do what we have to. I've never seen this before," Jim confessed helplessly, sliding under the covers and pulling the smaller man closer, tucking him into the curve of his own body, wrapping him in a safety blanket of Leftenant. 

Simon sat on the end of the bed, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in the covers between his fingers. "Dislike is the wrong word," he said, the rich tenor of his voice carrying through the room. "Blair hates death. Loathes it. Every fibre of his being rebels against the act, so hard it makes him physically ill. " 

 "But?" Jim pressed. "There was a definite 'but' on the end of that sentence." 

"An astute question," Simon acknowledged. "But he pushes it aside. We can't carry dead weight, and he knows it. So he makes it wait, even though it tears at his soul, leaving him bleeding and dying inside, he makes it wait. Until it's safe. " Amber flecks sparkled in the dark man's eyes as he looked up at the Leftenant. "Blair feels things with all his heart. Everything. Every word, every thought, every deed imprints itself on his very soul. The first time he killed, he was so ill, I thought he was going to die. " He rubbed his arms and moved to stoke a fire. "And it got worse each time. Each death took away a little more of him, and yet he couldn't stop, would never let a simple thing like the death of his soul prevent him helping another. I saw him wither and age, waiting for an ending, until even he no longer cried." Banks paused and turned, a chunk of wood in his hand. "Until he met you. " 

Jim shook his head in a silent dnial, remembering the chatty, seemingly content man that had been his companion on the road to Grenoble. Surely the Captain didn't mean _his_ Blair? 

 "My Blair?" he didn't realise he had spoken the words out loud until Simon dropped the last of the wood into the fire and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, fingers coming up to knead the bridge of his nose. 

"Leftenant. Ellison. Jim. I was brought up..." he trailed off and scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to find the right words. "I was brought up to believe that your sort of love was...wrong. Evil. " He held up a hand to stave off Jim's protests. "Hear me out. I had a good Catholic home. A good Catholic church. Everywhere I turned, I was facing these words, these 'immutable truths' and I eventually began to believe them. Until the war came. 

"I lost a lot of things when the war started. The first things to go were my perceptions. I learned a lot of those truths were false, I saw what happened to my friends, I saw the madness take over and I saw death. I stopped believing in the tenets of a God who could let this sort of thing happen. And eventually I stopped believing in the God. But one thing I never stopped believing in was the power of humanity. " He gestured to Sandburg, smiling a little when he notice the smaller man was asleep. "Blair is one of the most human people I have ever met. He still loves, he still smiles, and most importantly, he still _feels._ And when I look at the two of you, I don't see the evil I was always told. I just see two people in love. Take care of him." He got up off the bed and moved for the door. 

Jim reached out and caught his arm. "Simon...thanks. " 

The captain smiled, sadly. "Like I said, I've seen a lot of things, Jim. A lot of things that belong down there with Satan. And when it comes to that, what you two share isn't even on my list. " 

 Jim sat there for a long moment, looking after the retreating Captain's back, pondering on his words and the reality between Sandburg and himself. A man sick of death. A man wanting to embrace it with open arms. And yet, somehow, they they had each found something in each other. Something that could heal them both. Shifting a little, he settled on his side, watching his lover sleep. 

_Lover._

It seemed a strange word to apply to the angel in his bed. And the sin they had comitted. Was it a sin? Ellison had never cared one way or the other, laughing mechanically at the crude jokes about what sailors got up to on their ships. What did it matter to him? But now it was him, he was doing it and he couldn't hide behind the laughter any more. 

Was it a sin? Their act of passion? Jim wracked his brains, trying to think of a biblical passage that made them evil. Long dozy afternoons from his childhood came to mind, his mother reading from the leather bound book in a loud, clear voice. A chapter a day, shifting back and forth a little in her rocking chair. He couldn't think of one word she had said that had made him tainted, short of 'living in sin.' 

Stealing a hand out, Jim wrapped a lock of Blair's hair around his fingers. The Maquisard snored a little, nestling further into the body beside him, exhaustion dragging his body into a deep healing sleep. Ellison patted the curly head a little, playing with the long strands, watching them slip and drag over his digits while his mind pondered. They needed a wash soon. In fact, all of Blair needed a wash. So did Jim, a hard trek through stony dusty roads, sweat and dirt stained skin covered in white musk. Jim fancied he could still smell their release on himself. 

And it smelt _wonderful._

Carefully releasing the hair wrapped around his hand, he bent down and kissed the sleeping man's lips. Who cared if it was a sin? With so much sin and evil around them, what did one more matter? 

No, not sin. Love. 

* * *

 It felt wonderful, to just lie there and hold a warm body, Jim reflected, slowly drifting back to wakefulness. To feel the person in your arms return the embrace, content to snuggle. He missed snuggling. Carol had never been one for it, always frumpy and grumpy, or already gone when he awoke. 

 Morning stubble scratched teasingly at his arm, then two full lips were pressed to his cheek. "Good morning," Blair said politely. 

 "Good morning," Jim said back, equally politely. Then he launched himself at the smaller man, bedclothes rumping and flying as he plundered Blair's mouth. And damned if Sandburg wasn't returning the favour. 

 Finally they rolled to a stop, and Jim tugged the smaller man to him again, liking the way the slender body fit so well into the curve of his own. He slowly traced circles around Blair's nipples with his fingertips, nuzzling into the juncture between his shoulder and neck. "You know, I've been thinking," he mused teasingly, shuddring a little in anticipation as a warm hand snuck over his body. "And - " he trailed off and let his head fall back, relishing the feel in those scampering fingers across his skin. 

 "And...." Blair drew the end of the word up into a question, his questing hand happily stroking and fondling everything in reach. 

Jim leaned over and kissed the smaller man, tasting the salt from the last nights tears and smelling the unwashed, sweaty smell. "And, I think my little cochon needs a bath," he teased, nuzzling a perfect, shell-like ear. 

" _Cochon?_ " Blair fairly shrieked, rolling over and clamping his knees firmly astride Jim's pelvis as he pretend to smack the man helpless with laughter beneath him. " _COCHON???_ " 

 "Hmmm..." Jim made a show of sniffing the air and Blair pelted him with a pillow. When he pulled the cushion away, Jim was using the index finger of his right hand to push his own nostrils up, honking and grunting like a truffle hunter. 

It was the final straw. Blair sat there speechless for a long moment, then finally threw his head back and _screamed_ with laughter. Howling helplessly, the Maquisard toppled off his lover and to one side, clutching the pillow in his hands so tightly Jim thought he could hear the material tearing. 

Jim decided he liked the sound of Blair's uninhibited laughter. He liked it so much, he decided to hear more. Creeping one hand along the mattress, he mercilessly attacked the smaller man's stomach. There was more hair down here, he discovered, soft and silky, a delight to his fingers as he tickled over ribs that stood out a bit too sharply. 

 Blair shrieked and tried futilely to squirm away, panting and flapping his hands in a flurry of slaps at the invading digits as peal after peal of laughter blessed the air. Finally he managed to escape. "D'ac, D'ac!" he gasped. "Ok! I'll take the damn bath! On one condition." 

 Jim waggled his fingers threateningly. "No conditions, my little piggy," he warned. 

 " _One._ " Blair rolled over and covered the larger body with his own. "You bathe with me." 

* * *

Blair moaned as the hot water caressed him. "Heat..." he turned and made kissy motions to the faucet as Jim stepped into the water. "Oooh, I love you. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou...." 

 Ellison pouted as he settled himself up the other end of the tub. "Does that mean I'm replaced?" 

 Blair tickled him with his feet as he closed his eyes, soaking up the heat. "Unless you start spouting warm water, yes," he replied solemnly. 

 "Ahhh," Jim leaned back, water splashing around him. "But will this bath take you to a place of endless sun?" he asked slyly. 

 Blair cracked open one eye. "I'm listening..." 

 Jim smoothed his hands up the other man's calves. "Where would you like to go, mon 'tite cochon? Florida? Mexico?" 

 "I went to Mexico once.." Blair splashed his toes in the water, watching the little ripples spread out to rebound from the sides of the tub. 

 Jim caught the wayward foot and settled it in his lap with its mate. "When?" he asked, sensitive fingers massaging the fleshy pad on the sole. 

 Blair threw his head back and moaned in ecstasy. "Avant la guerre," he gasped, "I was studying the cultural remnants of the Aztec empire." 

 "Studying?" Jim's hands drifted into stillness as he realised how little he knew of his lover. "Why?" 

 Blair demandingly thumped his foot, splashing him. Taking the hint, he resumed the foot massage with a wry little smile as the Maquisard continued. "I was studying the people..." He slid down further in the tub as Jim hit a sensitive spot "oooooooooooo.......anthropology....." 

 Jim started on the other foot. "So you were studying to be an anthropologist?" 

 " _Am_ an anthropologist," Blair was melting into a puddle under the strong fingers. "Professor. Got my doctorate three days before they broke the Maginot Line." 

 Jim let his hands move on their own as he studied the smaller man. His Blair a Professor? He looked no older than 26, 27, not the stuffy, grey haired gentlemen he usually associated with that level of knowledge. 

Blair arched lazily as he fished for the soap, body undulating along Jim's legs as he recovered his prize. Soap, _real_ soap, an incredible luxury with the nazi restrictions. More highly prized than chocolate, even \- chocolate might taste nice, but you couldn't roll it over your body to get rid of the smell. "So what about you?" he asked, lathering up a foam in his fingers and smoothing his soapy hands over Jim's chest. 

 Ellison shrugged. "Army. My brother cashed in big on the crash of '29, he owns some company in the US." He leaned forwards with a gasp as the slick palms teased his nipples "Never really could get into the corporate dig, so I went back into the armed forces. Then the war started and..." he shrugged again. 

 Warm water waved around them as Blair shifted in the tub, kneeling between the older man's thighs as he continued his washing. "And that's it? Just army?" His hands slid up to knead the older man's shoulders. Jim moaned incoherently as the smaller man brushed against him, an innocent little smile on his face, even though he knew _exactly_ was he was doing to the Leftenant. "No wife?" Blair pressed with a little twist of his hips to the right, that same innocent half smile tickling his lips. "No children?" Another twist to the left. "No little cottage by the seashore?" 

The maddening movements quickly became too much, and Jim wrapped his arms around the base of the smaller man's back, grinding their groins together hard. Blair's grin grew impossibly wider as he held on, head falling back and lips gasping open as a warm, hungry mouth attached itself to his nipples, sucking and nipping, blowing cool air, the contrast startling and aching. 

 "Jiiiimmmm..." he moaned and thudded his fists against the muscled back in a little drumbeat of ectasy as the other man switched from one side to the other, the movements between them faster now, water sloshing up and over the sides of the tub to spray the floor as the Maquisard raised himself higher on his knees, then dropped, pounding harder against the waiting flesh as Jim grunted. Finally it proved too much, the warm water slicking and splashing around them pushing the pair right over the edge, the tattered tiling bounding the noises of their release back at them over and over again. 

 WIth a sound that was half gasp, half sigh, Jim toppled backwards, water waving around him as he fell back bonelessly into the tub. Blair fell with him, slumping over his chest, content to be held and petted until his brain returned from its sojourn. 

 Jim carded his hands through the hair at his chest, over and over, noting the way each strand felt gliding across his knuckles. "Your hair.." he murmured, stretching a coil out to its full length, watching the highlights playing. "So beautiful.." 

 "I should cut it.." Blair whispered drowsily. "They have barbers here, or scissors. Make myself respectable..." 

 "No!" Winding a length around his hand, Jim slowly brought the other man's face to his. "No cutting." He kissed the full lips, and went back to his playing, memorising each and every individual strand. "Can I.." he started hesitantly. "CanIwashyourhair?" The words came out in a jumble as Jim stroked his hands over the tumbled silkiness. Caroline had never let him touch her hair, perfumed and coiffed and fussed over for hours on end until it was 'just perfect.' 

 Blair turned over in the tub and laughed at the whiteness billowing outwards through the water, like a giant amoeba. "Not in this water," he said comfortably, snuggling a little further into the strength at his back. He peeked over the edge and winced at the mess on the floor. "I don't think we have enough water left in the bath." 

 "Well, how about another bath?" Jim suggested. 

 Blair blinked at him, and Ellison could almost see the little cogwheels turning in his mind, shifting from viewing a hot bath as a dreamt of luxury, to a luxurious reality. He checked the little water heater, then shrugged, reaching down for the plug and dangling it in front of him by the chain. "Why not?" 

 Together they flopped back against the sloping end of the tub, Blair leaning against Jim's chest, feeling the liquid warmth slowly drain away around them and watching the way the smaller man's penis bobbed in the retreating water until it sat lonely on the bottom of the tub. 

 Blair looked down with a frown. "That looks so...sad," he remarked mournfully, before going off into gales of laughter. 

Jim smiled. That was one of the things he loved most about the smaller man, his ability to laugh, take amusement in even the smallest (or largest, truth be told) things - even at the expense of himself. Blair poked the plug back in with his feet, then with a bit of fumbling turned the taps back on with his toes, reluctant to leave his warm, snuggly pillow. There was more fishing for soap, followed by some snuggling and smooching as the water levels rose, and Blair barely managed to turn the taps off again before the tub overflowed. 

* * *

Jim lathered the last of the soap between his palms and gently reached down, awkwardly rubbing it into the sodden locks waiting. Blair purred wantonly under the massage, tilting his head back into the strong fingers, exposing the graceful curve of his neck. 

Jim caressed the curls in his hands, worshipped them, but more and more he found his gaze drawn to that delicate curve of skin. He watched the smaller man's adam's apple bob, entranced by the way it dipped and swirled, an ever-so-faint vibration to the left where his pulse beat strong and steady. He was slowly drawn in by that steady beat, losing himself in the sensations of the silk against his hands, the warm over his body, the thrumming of that heart and the gradual drop of the water forming up the end of the tub, each drop growing from the faucet, becoming fat and finally detaching to land with a little plop. 

"Jim?" He came back to himself with a start. The water around them was cooling now, Blair's blue eyes looking up at him concernedly past a few stray soap bubbles. "Are you all right?" 

"Yeah," he shook off the faint uneasy feeling gripping the edges of his mind, a little shocked by how much time had passed without his knowledge. Reaching out, he picked up a cracked old jug, filling it with water from the tub and poured it over it over Blair's hair, rinsing all traces of the soap away, careful not to get it into the smaller man's eyes. 

Afterbath towelling of each other quickly led to other things, but this time they made it to the bed, at least. An hour later, they both agreed to a quick swipe with a damp cloth and calling it clean before reluctantly going outside. 

As soon as they appeared, Banks put them to work. A sizeable stock of weapons and ammunitions had been gathered in Grenoble, and all the Reseaux were taking it, piece by piece to the stronghold in Vassieux. 

Mills bombs, rifles, Brens, all the weapons they had airdropped from the Allies or simply stolen were slung into packs. The ammunitions were carefully packed into old army lockers. Jim and Blair worked seriously, both well aware that a moment of stupidity could send them to Vassieux a hell of a lot faster than they expected. 

Jim moved to take up the final battered old ammunitions locker, only to find a cheeky pixie sprawled across it. "Blair.." he moaned, as the pixie gave him a distinct 'Come hither' look. Pouting a little, Blair stood up and grabbed his pack, double checking his supplies before shrugging it on. Each movement precise and economical. 

Jim followed suit, then bent to pick up the locker, a million dark jokes running through his mind 

'...don't drop the soap...' 

He chuckled and straightened. 

As soon as he had a firm grip on the heavy locker, he felt a warm hand smooth over his biceps. He knew it was Blair. Instantly. In only the short time they had been together, he had learned the touch of his lover like no other. 

The nimble fingers trace over each curve of his muscles, one hand per arm, a familiar warmth pressed against his back. The hands trailed up and over his arms, no sound from the form behind him, only a light breathing, as if the inspection was too fascinating to comment on. 

The hands slid down to explore his forearms, then slid around his waist, gripping it gently. Jim held his breath as the fingers inspected his stomach, vaguely feeling the way the grips on the locker dug into his fingers. Then it faded, nothing else existing but the gentle inquiry. 

Those fingers slipped into his shirt, finding the gap where he had lost a button, caressing the outline of his ribs. Warm breath shivered between his shoulderblades, hot against his back as they trailed from his sternum upwards, overlapping briefly, little hairs on the sturdy wrists making him shudder as they prickled his flesh. They slipped up higher, drawing his shirt up a little with the motion, two fingertips teasingly circling his nipples. 

The arms holding the munitions locker start to shake, just a little, and he flexed his muscles in a teasing Alpha Male show of strength. 

"Mmmmm....." a long, drawn out rumble emananted from the man behind him, vibrating through his entire body as the hands slid back down, slowly untangling from his battered old shirt, down his hips and down the outside of his equally battered pants. Smoothing down his thighs, even muffled by the dusty material, that touch set his skin on fire. 

Electrons of heat zoomed along his body as the fingers walked their way, spider-like across the tops of his thighs to his penis, brushing once, teasingly across the bulge in his pants before stroking along the stretch of skin joining his groin and legs. Back and forth, back and forth... 

Jim dropped the locker, missing his foot by a bare inch as he turned to take the smaller man in his arms for a long kiss. As they seperated, out of the corner of his eye he saw Brown grudgingly toss a packet of cigarettes to a grinning Simon before the Captain called them to move out. 

* * *

Blair alternated between smiling, grinning and outright leering at his lover as they moved along, swinging the locker between them a little like a swing. Jim returned the facial expressions, feeling as giddy as a teenager in love for the first time. He was nearly twenty years past that age bracket, but it really didn't matter. It was so hard to believe that they were at war. The sun was out, there was no sound of gunfire or death, just the occasional chirping of birds and the companionable chatter between the members of the Reseau. It seemed like any other day, the mountain paths gently sloping upwards no problem whatsoever. 

Until they found the first body. 

The Maquis seperated, packs abandoned in unison and Stens slung down into readiness, melting silently into the rocks and trees, the need for survival giving them a synergy and preciseness that would have made any trained drill Sergeant bite his baton in two and sob with pure joy. 

Henri and Sam continued on ahead, scouting the area before giving the all-clear. The others glided back out of cover, and continued ahead. 

A battle had been fought over the musty patch of dirt road, craters gouging through the surface, rock fragments tossed aside like abandoned toys. It looked like a nazi patrol had caught a Maquis party. Both sides had sustained heavy casualities. It was hard to tell who won. 

The party moved through the strewn bodies, the battlefield eerily silent, broken only by the sounds of their own feet, the cry of a lone bird and the buzz of flies drawn to the resultant smorgasboard. 

Simon flipped over a corpse with his boot. The staring eyes of a young woman met him. Most of her chest was gone. He dragged a hand over his face. "Ok people, let's do it." 

Still moving in that eerie silence, afraid somehow to break it, the Maquis methodically began stripping the corpses of what they could use. The nazi corpses were stripped with brutal efficiency, but the Maquis were left, only their weapons reclaimed by their fellow fighters. There was no time to bury the bodies, but ragged clothing was draped reverently over contorted faces, prayers hastily murmured over the fallen comrades. 

Jim watched his lover, wanting to protect the smaller man from all this carnage. Blair moved almost mechanically, eyes slightly shuttered and glazed, as his mind took refuge somewhere else from the task he was performing. Weapons in one pile. Ammunition in another. A third for items they would take only if they could - canteens, field rations, blankets and the like. Blair sized up the boots on a corpse, and if it wasn't for the incredibly sad look on his face, he may as well have been a carefree young man shopping for shoes. Sickened by the sight, but even more sickened by the fact that he approved the action, Jim stood up. 

And heard the voice. 

"Bitte..." The pleading whisper drifted through the air. Jim jerked his head around, searching for the source, one part of his mind wondering why no-one else appeared to hear it. 

"...wasser..." 

He honed in on the sound, aware of Blair beside him. Rolling aside a battered corpse, he found a wounded soldier, no older than eighteen, dirt and blood streaking his Teutonic features and smearing back into his dark hair, eyes staring fixedly up into the sky as his cracked lips moved again. 

"Wasser.." 

Beside him, Blair exploded into action, shrugging out of his pack and dumping it on the ground, pulling out his canteen. Going to his knees beside the supine figure, he gently lifted the wounded man's head and shoulders, pressing the water to the dry lips. 

The soldier took one hesitant sip, then another, then the glazed eyes focused on his rescuers. 

"Gott!" With a strangled exclamation he tried to shy away, but Blair held him firmly, yet gently. 

"Es ist in ordnung, est ist ok. Shh, shh, Wir nicht verletzen Sie." Blair tore a strip off his shirt and ran some water over it, gently wiping the other man's face clear of the grime. "Wo sind Sie hurt?" 

The soldier watched him warily, like a predator about to strike. He shifted a little, then blanched in pain, falling back into Blair's supportive embrace. "Mein Bein" 

"Shh," Blair ran the water soaked cloth over the fevered forehead, then offered a little more water. "Jim, he says his leg is hurt," he said softly. "Can you please look?" 

Jim hesitated, then nodded, kneeling beside the pair. He studiously avoided the panicked eyes resting on him, gently examining the unnatural angle of the soldier's lower left leg. 

The leg was in the early stages of gangrene, the subtle smell of putrefaction tainting the air. The flesh around the wound was swollen tight against the uniform pants, and Jim gently inserted two fingers into the bullet hole, tearing them open further. The soldier jerked a little in Blair's arms, then relaxed when he finally realised the two meant him no harm, tensing again as sensitive fingers gently probed his leg. 

Jim gritted his teeth in sympathy as the injury was revealed. The bullet had shattered the bone just below the kneecap, the wound red and angry, with scarlet streaks radiating outwards over hot skin. The boy would never be able to walk without support, and once he got back to his own people and proper medical help, he would never walk on two legs again. 

Jim rummaged in his pack and pulled out his tin of sulphur powder, knowing he had little to spare but using it anyway, hoping it would somehow help against the infection as he tore strips from his shirt to wind around the wound. If the soldier was lucky, he would only lose his leg from the knee down. 

The others had gathered around them during the examination, and Jim could feel the prickles on his back from their stares, the muttered curses. He wondered at the incongruous tableau they presented. He had come here expressly for the purpose of killing Germans, yet here he was, trying desperately to save the life of one. Why? 

He saw Blair whisper soothingly, gently cleaning the dirt and mud away from the soldier's battered face and throat and knew. If Blair of all people, after all he had been through could forgive, then so could Jim. He gently wound another strip of shirt around the injured leg, holding two rough splints in place, firm enough to give the young man a fighting chance on his feet after they had gone. 

Blair was also aware of the scrutiny, the murmurs but ignored them. He flashed his lover a grateful smile when he saw the splints, and offered more water to the soldier, who drank thirstily. A little too fast, he coughed and choked, some of it coming back up. Blair wiped it away without fuss, uttering more soothing reassurances, smiling down at the confused blue eyes, so much like his own. Shame washed through his being, agony tearing at his soul. They had done this, the Maquis. They had left this boy to die alone and in pain, and he wondered how many times he had done the same. How many times had he thought he had killed and walked away, leaving a single soul to die in torment, surrounded by the corpses of his colleagues? 

He couldn't think about it, didn't want to think about it, concentrated instead on saving this one life, as if it could somehow ease his own guilt. 

He felt Jim shift away, then another shadow was cast across them. 

"Blair." Sandburg tried to ignore the sombre tones of his Captain, coaxing the young soldier into drinking a little more water, just a little more, cleaning the rest of his wounds and easing him into a more comfortable position on the hard clay ground. 

"Blair." This time he did look up, already shaking his head at the words he knew were to come. "We can't leave a trail," Simon said softly, heart breaking at the determination and sorrow on the younger man's face. "If he gets back to his unit, any unit, before we get there, we are dead. One life for all of ours, it isn't worth it. We have to -" 

"WRONG," Blair snarled, and everyone recoiled at the venom in his tone. "We DON'T have to. We don't have to become _them_. We don't have to kill and destroy because it's more convenient than helping and healing." He turned back to his charge, offering a little more water to the parched lips. 

"Sandburg." At the commanding tone, Blair whipped his head around and pierced Simon with a gaze so angry, so vicious, so sorrowful and pleading that the other man took a step back before the sheer force of it. Blair pressed his canteen into one dirty hand, avoiding the wounded man's face, knowing, just knowing that somehow the man _knew_ what they were talking about, knew that it was his _life_ they were bandying about and arguing like some obscure point of law. 

And he couldn't face that. 

Stepping back, Blair made a show of adjusting his pack, keeping his hands far from the gun over his shoulder. "You want it done, _you_ do it, Banks," he said coldly. "I may kill, but I will not murder. " And he walked off, Ellison, then Rafe, then Taggert, then the others following him, streaming away one by one until only Sam and Simon were left. 

Simon stared after the young man for a moment, then swung his Sten off his shoulder and pointed the gun downwards. He stared for a long moment into the terrified features below him, the blue eyes locked onto the barrel, cringing, waiting for oblivion. Ever so slightly the muzzle began to waver, then Simon swung the gun back over his shoulder. 

Sandburg was right. He couldn't do it, not here, not like this. It was wrong. Killing this _child_ would make him cross the fine line between resistance fighter and murderer. He smiled reassuringly at the wounded young man and continued onwards, catching up with the others. 

Sam was the last. She stopped by the German soldier and looked dispassionately down at him as he tried to smile. Then she raised her gun. 

Blair flinched and leaned a little closer into the strong body walking at his side as the chatter of a Sten shattered the still morning air. Jim brought an arm around his lover's shoulders, and turned his head to press a tender kiss to the closed eyes. His ears caught a fragment of a whispered prayer, and it made him love the younger man all the more. 

* * *

It was a solemn group that entered St. Nizier that evening, the last stop before Vassieux. Sam caught up with Jim and Blair just before they reached the outskirts.  With a challenging stare to Ellison, she tossed Blair his canteen, and a pair of boots before moving on. 

Blair stopped short in the middle of the road,  staring at the canteen in his hands as the people streamed around him and into the town.  The boots fell unnoticed and unwanted to the ground, his gaze locked on the little metal shape in his hands.  He studied it from all angles, like a times crossword, worrying a little at the lid, playing with the belt clips. 

A large hand slid into view and Jim took the canteen away, replacing it with his own.  The Maquisard looked up and gave his lover a grateful smile and a kiss on the cheek before slinging an arm around his shoulder as they walked into the town together. 

* * *

With a decided pout, some exaggerated yawning, and a handful of _real_ francs,  Blair secured them a little house in the town center. There were even more Maquis here than in Grenoble, all headed for the strongholds in the Vercors mountains, thrumming with energy, alive, thrilling in the reunion with old friends, mourning the loss of those who didn't make it, buzzing with speculations of the Allied plans for them now D-Day had come. 

After so long, it looked possible.  They dared to hope that La Patrie would soon be free. 

With a saucy grin., Blair liberated another handful of francs from Jim and went in search of a meal,  wandering through the crowds, stopping every so often to touch a person, return an embrace, hold a conversation. 

Jim wandered a little aways, to what was once a local picnic spot, where young lovers would come to spoon.  He ran his fingers over the names carved into the tree, generations meeting and loving, most probably being concieved here, in this spot. 

Idly he wondered if there would be any more young lovers left to return after the war.  Not if the nazi's won, of that he was sure. 

"Ellison." He turned at the low voice, unsurprised to find Sam standing there.  "I want you to leave Blair alone." She took a step closer, unconciously dropping into a fighting stance. "He's not for you. Leave him alone." 

Jim resisted the urge to laugh in her face, remembering Blair's soft entreaty whispered late one night. _/"Be careful with her, gentle. She is a great woman. Beautiful, before the war, inside and out. It's not her fault the nazis want her dead."/_   "Why?" 

"You tell me, yank." Sam moved closer. "You tell me you love him. _You,_ a man, a Goy, an American. You tell me you love him when you have your warm safe bed at the end of your mission, and we are still here sleeping on the ground. You tell me when you sleep and we run, hunted down because of who we are." 

Jim spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture and tried a smile. 

Sam punched him in the face. 

Jim staggered back from the blow, one hand cupping his nose. "Ellison!" he looked up to see Rafe approaching and held up a restraining hand. This was his fight. Wiping a smear of blood off on the back of his hand, Jim feinted to the right, then swung his legs out in a scissor kick, bringing Sam down as well. 

Sam snarled and jerked a knife out of the rope wrapped around her waist as a belt. Jim dodged the first wild swing and backhanded her across the face, snatching the knife from the resistance fighter's grasp and holding it to her throat. 

"JIM!" Another hand snatched the knife from his hand. "What the FUCK do you think you are doing????" Blair shoved him away from the supine woman, dropping to his knees to help her sit. "Are you ok?"  The basket of food now lay spilled across the ground. Ruined. 

Sam wiped a splash of blood from her lip and winced, nodding, smiling at him and brushing his hands away as he fussed over her. "I'm ok, Blair," she whispered in Hebrew. "Hakol beseder." 

Blair looked at the blood on her face, an abstract little smear on the side of his hand. Picking the knife up from the ground beside him, he studied it for a moment. "Jim, why did you do this?" he asked, voice steady. "Give me one good reason." His voice was rising now as he slowly got to his feet. "Is this what they teach you in America? Do they teach you how to kill innocent women? Slit their throats like animals in a slaughterhouse?!" 

Jim tried to force his brain to form a coherent sentence in a language, any language at all. "She said...I...she was talking...about you, she -" 

"About me? You did this over me?" Blair whispered it at first, then he was shouting. "OVER ME?" He hurled the knife to land blade first in the ground before Ellison, a warrior's challenge. "And what after Sam?" he demanded, anger surging through every inch of his frame. "Who's next? Joel? Simon? How many will you kill? Will you kill all my friends so that I'm yours alone?" 

"Blair, I -" 

Sandburg let loose with a right hook that sent him to the ground. "How many Jim? Tell me that?? HOW FAR WILL YOU GO?" Blair had totally lost control, wavering between English and French, even German, a language forever fixed in his mind as one for harsh screamed insults, as he raged at the Leftenant. He called him a bastard. He called him a murderer. All his fears and pains and losses over the duration of the war boiled over and scalded his lover. 

Jim got to his feet, wincing mentally under the tirade, ignoring the protest from his aching head. 

And walked away. 

"COWARD!" Blair screamed after him. 

The Maquisard stood there until the older man had disappeared into the forest, letting loose with a stream of invective until he ran out of breath, chest heaving. He made to step after his lover, but Rafe grabbed his arm. 

"Sandburg!" The SOE operative had to use every ounce of strength he had to hold the incensed man still. Finally wrestling the smaller man to the ground, he sat on his chest and told him what happened. 

The _full_ story. 

Blair lay there dazed for a moment after he had finished, breath coming in quick rasps as the enormity of what he had done hit him. Scrambling to his feet, he stared for a long time at the knife, still embedded in the ground, then turned on Sam. "Is this true?" 

Sam got to her feet and wiped her face with the back of her hand. "You trust the word of an Englishman over me?" 

" **Sam.** Is it true?" The sullen look on her face gave him all the answer he needed. "Oh god." Blair turned to head off after his lover. 

"He won't want you," Sam snarled. "Look at him. The great white American. You think he really wants you? Look at us. Starving hunted Jews. Killers. You think he will take you home? Share his bed and his wife with you? He will go home and laugh when he remembers us." There was a harsh bitterness in the words she spat at Sandburg. "You are nothing to him. Something to keep him from les poules while he plays with the war." 

Blair froze into immobility as her words hit home, smashing into all his hidden fears and insecurities. "Jim?" he whispered, an odd, queer note to his voice. 

Rafe came up beside the smaller man and shook him by the shoulders. "Blair," he waited until the haunted blue eyes locked on his face. "Blair. She is _lying._ Jim loves _you_ I don't understand it - hell I don't even know if I _want_ to understand it, but he loves _you._ More than anything I've ever seen." 

Blair blinked slowly, his thin frame beginning to tremble. "His wife? He didn't tell me he was.." 

"He's not. Not in anything but paper." Rafe shook his head and told Sandburg what he knew of the reasons why Jim joined the Reseau. "Jim has nothing now," he finished softly. "Nothing but you." 

Blair stared at Rafe, tears glistening in his eyes. "I told him to go," he whispered. "I called him a murderer, I told him he stank of blood and death. I- I pushed him away. Oh God." He sank to his knees, the tears uncontrollable now, pouring down his face over and over, dampening the ground beneath him. "Quelle folle suis-je! Quelle _idiote,_ Quelle sotte..." he couldn't continue, the words stolen from him as he snatched in desperate breaths. Rafe caught the smaller man as he collapsed to the ground, holding him close, rocking him slowly and gently as he gasped for air, apologies falling like rain from his lips. 

Rafe looked up into Sam's brown eyes. There was an almost undefinable emotion in them as she studied the intimate way Rafe held Sandburg, then it coalesced into a mixture of feelings. Anger, regret, sorrow, jealousy all passed through before burning back to the steady rage that was her usual state. Without another word, she picked her knife up and walked away, stuffing it back into her belt. 

* * *

Jim wandered nearly two miles, the falling darkness enveloping him. He went nowhere in particular, wishing he could lose himself, but unable to, his mind turning traitor and meticulously recording every twist and turn that took him away from the town. Away from Blair. 

Jim stopped in no particular place and leaned his shoulder against a tree. He was stupid. He'd done it again. Allowed himself a glimpse of what he really was, allowed himself to love only to have it burned to ashes, withered to dust. The old protection began to slip into place, categorising, pigeonholing, something he could hide behind. James Joseph Ellison. Fighter Pilot. OSS. Man, husband, all the roles he played in life. Underneath it all was _him_ Jim, a man who was desperately afraid of living and dying alone, without love. 

He turned his back to the tree and slid down it, feeling the bark through his shirt. Funny, he'd come here with the express purpose of finding a quick, speedy death, too cowardly to take his own life, somehow feeling that he owed it to everyone that courted the mask that he die gloriously, his memory hallowed and dignified. A war hero. 

But now, he didn't want to die. He didn't want to be that man. He wanted to live forever. He wanted to be Jim. He wanted to be with the man who had shown him something he'd thought he'd been living, only now exposed as a shallow lie. 

Reality. Not the hollow masks people always wore in public, fixed so firmly in place that they couldn't be removed, even in private. The anger Blair had shown him was pure. Real. The love was real. Everything about him was _real_. Blair wasn't a Maquisard, a resistance fighter, an anthropology professor, Jewish or even French. He was just Blair Sandburg. He just _was._

And Jim felt jealous. 

And at the same time, not jealous. Sharing his life with Blair, the smaller man had given to him a joining, a merging, somehow they were combining into the same thoughts, the same feelings, a protective shell that could withstand the insanity around them. Was it breaching, even now? 

He had never felt this way about anyone before. Not the eighteen year old girl he had divested of her virginity, not the woman he had taken for a wife, not anyone. And he wanted it back. Because Blair let him be _Jim_ not a puppet to be toyed with, not the whipped, almost emasculated puppy Carol had treated him as, but _Jim._

And _nothing_ was worth losing that. Not the war, not his wife, not the flat headed maniac with a burr up her ass. Straightening his shoulders in resolve, Jim began the long trek back to St. Nizier. 

* * *

[Continued in part two](nomde_a.html).


	2. Chapter 2

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

## Nom De Guerre

By Taleya

Author's homepage: <http://www.fortunecity.com/lavendar/brett/283/index.html>

Author's notes and disclaimer can be found in part one. 

* * *

Nom De Guerre - part two  
By Taleya

Captain Banks approached the two men huddled in the dark grass. "Rafe? Blair?" he looked around for Ellison, and a horrid thought struck him at the sight of the dapples of blood on the grass, the unnatural paleness of Sandburg's face. "What happened?" 

Blair looked up from where his fingers were endlessly twisting and turning in his lap, thin form shivering. Wiping the heels of his hands bruisingly across his cheeks, he got to his feet. "Jim.." He trailed off, looking down, then raised his head, proud somehow behind the tears coursing down his face. "I hurt Jim. I t-told him...I...I hurt him.." 

Simon's face blanched pure white. "Give me your gun. And knife, if you have one. Anything you can use to -" 

"No," it was a whisper as Blair shook his head, but he handed over his Sten. "I don't deserve to...I should live. A thousand years, forever. I should live knowing what I just did to Jim. My Jim." 

"Captain, what are you doing?" Rafe stood up beside the younger man, expression puzzled. Then it cleared as realisation hit. "You can't be serious. Blair would never -" 

"Blair is a lost and lonely man," Banks said softly as the Maquisard wandered off to sit cross-legged beneath a tree. "He has seen his entire family die in front of him. He's been forced to kill, and now he thinks he has driven away the only person he could truly love." Simon slung the Sten over his shoulder, and put a hand on Rafe's shoulder. The SOE operative was looking after the smaller man with a sorrowful look on his face. "Leave him alone, Rafe," he said softly. "It's what he does. It helps him to stay sane." 

* * *

Blair closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. He had to find his center, the way he had been taught by the wizened little Tibetan monk so long ago in another life. One filled with sunshine and happiness. He was a child of learning, his parents had let him experience all he wanted. Anything he wanted to know had been in the palm of his hand, and yet he knew so little of what was important. 

A stone dug painfully into his leg, but he accepted it, relished it, the pain was his penance. He was a fool. Cretin. So much had been taken away from him by war and death. Friends, family. Lovers. And it still wasn't enough. Living was a crime, living as he was, so filthy and soiled by what he had endured. How could Jim accept him? Love him? He had chased away the older man before he too left. Preventing the hurt. Somehow relishing the pain. For so long pain had been the only thing he had felt himself capable of feeling, the only way he knew he was still alive, not a mindless automaton. A brief sensation, fluttered away on the wind. But this time it hadn't worked. The hurt was there, inside, festering, growing greater and greater each moment they were separated. He didn't want the hurt, he wanted the love, he wanted to touch, to feel, to know again. He felt hot tears pouring down his face. "Jim, he whispered. "I'm sorry. Veuillez me pardonner. S'il vous plaît." 

His resolve was forgotten, his soul torn open, apart, scattered into a million pieces with an achingly familiar face etched upon each fragment. If Jim was gone, then he would die. 

An eternity later he opened his eyes. The center was nowhere because his center was Jim. Torn away by stupid words and cruel assumptions. With a heavy heart, he made his way back into the town, waiting to see if he would live or die. 

Stopping in the town center, Blair's eyes lit up as he recognised the weary, dusty figure trudging up the road. He took one step forward, then another, a hesitant smile frittering on the edges of his mouth. 

He stopped just short of the older man, head bowed, hanging there, frozen in time, awaiting the verdict. Would Jim want him? _Could_ he after his lover had said those hateful words? Or would he see Blair as just one more betrayal in a lifetime of hurt? His heart and life hung in the balance, awaiting the verdict that would light his world or destroy his soul. 

Jim stood there for a long moment, just watching him. Blair could feel the other man's gaze as it swept the whole length of his body. Feel the pain. Know, without seeing, the anguish that would be there in those sky blue depths. 

After an eternity of silence, he felt one large, rough hand encase his own and squeeze gently. 

And the world fell away. 

There was nothing else, no-one else as they entered their little house together, hands joined and the door shutting softly behind them. 

* * *

Blair coaxed the larger man onto the bed. Now was not the time for talking, clumsy words could never express what they really thought. Actions spoke louder than words, a tender touch a heartfelt apology, a gentle kiss a declaration of love. When they were both naked, Blair lay down on top of Jim, blanketing him as best he could, wishing for the first time in his life he was taller so that they could feel the contact along their entire bodies. 

He fit so well into the strong arms, and Blair bent his head humbly, waiting for his lover to treat him as he wished. Two large hands lifted his face, soft lips tenderly kissing away the traces of tears, and he smiled, eyes lighting with a soft joy, bending to take those lips with his, then across, over the other mans face, tasting the salt from their twin sorrow, the warm skin, the developing stubble that burred his flesh and printed on his soul. He wanted to mark Jim, be marked by him, have the feel of his body so deeply imprinted that there could be no other touch, no other taste, no other person. A mould, waiting to be filled, one that would fit only one man. 

He shifted down the perfect body, letting him fill his senses, the empty place in his soul. As he moved down the strong form, the other man's penis rose, until they met halfway. He greeted the flushed member with a little smile and a tender kiss hello. His mouth exploded with sensation, Jim's seed, Jim's manhood, pure, untainted Jim and he took the head into his mouth, sucking gently, wanting more of that marvellous taste. 

"Blair...." it was a soft, breathy moan as Jim writhed beneath him and Blair marvelled at the trust the larger man held in him. He was humbled by it. He was literally holding his lover's manhood in his mouth, like a lion tamer who put his head in the mouth of one of his charges, and yet there was not fear. Just two hands tangling in his hair, stroking down his back, uttered sighs and gasps of ecstasy. 

Blair worshipped the cock in his mouth like the man it belonged to, exploring every inch of it, letting it fill his tastebuds, knowing that it was his and his alone, there was no space for others, Jim was his, branded, just as surely as he was Jim's. And when Jim came it was the sweetest taste, filing his mouth and he swallowed greedily, gobbling every last drop like fine ambrosia. 

Jim collapsed weakly onto the bed, hands idly petting his lover. It was intense. Indescribable. The thoughts and memories carried him spinning into darkness and when he awoke, light teased the edges of his vision. 

"Good morning, lover." Blair was watching him, a little smile on his face. The luscious mouth rose to his and he eagerly grasped it, tasting the earthy, intoxicating mixture of himself and the other man in one. "God, Blair.." 

He froze suddenly, then scrambled off the bed, grabbing his clothes. "Shit." 

"Jim?" Blair's eyes widened in panic. Had it been too much? Too soon? He had ruined it again, his sullied filthy past marring what he had held as pure. "Jim -" 

"Get dressed." Jim yanked on his boots. 

"Jim, please, I -" 

"Get dressed, dammit!" Jim hauled him off the bed and sent him spinning to the pile of clothing draped over a battered old chair. "They're coming." 

"Germans?" Blair shrugged on his shirt. Again he could hear nothing. But Jim had been right before... 

"Get a weapon." Jim jerked the door open and rushed out, half-dressed. "A Sten. Vickers. Anything." There was naked fear in his face. "We're going to need it." 

* * *

Jim grabbed hold of the nearest person as he exited the house. Megan blinked, then her eyes began a frank appraisal. "I have to say Jim," she drawled, "this look is a lot -" 

"Get Banks," he ordered, cutting across her speech. "We're hip-deep in shit." He barely blinked as he made his way across the dirt to the armoury. Decorated Officer and Gentleman James J Ellison had just run up to a woman, half-naked and sworn at her. Broken several deeply ingrained cultural taboos. 'Big-time boo-boo' as Jack used to say. But, judging from her own stream of invective, Megan could teach him a thing or two in the latter department. 

"...bugger bugger bugger...fucking bloody bugger shit shit....SIMON!!" 

Jim looked around the village. So many people here, innocents, a little girl playing with a doll in the middle of a street no longer used because there was no petrol, the faint cluck as an elderly woman chased a chicken. All of them, innocents. And they would be caught in the middle. Because there wasn't enough time to get them clear, not enough time for anything because now he could hear the rumble of the tank approaching, the excited babble of the German soldiers, not worrying about silence, because all the stealth training in the world wasn't worth _shit_ with ten tons of armour on wheels preceeding you. 

They only had a short amount of time to prepare, and then the Germans were there. 

* * *

Jim cornered his lover in their rented house, desperate to protect the smaller man. "Blair. Take Serena and Megan. Get out of here. Go for the hills. Make sure they're ok." 

Blair gaped in sheer disbelief. "What?" He didn't want to fight. God knew he didn't want to fight. But he would. He wouldn't turn tail and run, leaving others to hurt and bleed and die while he was safe. That wasn't who he was. Not to mention the fact he would be risking life, limb and a certain delicate part of his anatomy he was rather fond of if he tried to mollycoddle the two women in any way. 

"Blair," Jim was smoothing his hair back with both hands, palms lingering on his face. "Please honey, you have to go, please, take them. There's so many coming, I don't know... Get out of here. I'll come for you, I promise. If I don't, keep running. Go to Vassieux, warn them, please, just go." 

He kissed the other man tenderly on the forehead, a benediction, and Blair realised what it was. 

A goodbye. 

"No." He took a step back from the touch, eyes hardening and mouth twisting in a undefinable emotion. "No Jim." He shook his head once, the movement harsh and vicious. "No. I'm staying." 

Jim closed his eyes briefly. They didn't have time for this. The rumble of the tank shook the house, windows rattling in their frames. They were out of time. He had to get his lover away, get him somewhere safe. They were going to die, all of them in a futile, bloody battle. "Blair -" 

"I'm staying!" Blair's lips were in a thin line. "You think I could do that?" he demanded. "Run? Leave everyone behind to die? Leave _you_? No. Not me." He stepped forward again and laid his hand against Jim's face. "Dans la vie, dans la mort, mon amour," he whispered. 

Jim leaned into the touch for the last time, closing his eyes. Then he jerked away as if the caress was pure poison. _Forgive me._ Steeling his resolve, he slapped the smaller man's face, hard. "Dammit Sandburg, DO AS I SAY!" he snarled in the tone of an officer to subordinate, no trace of love. 

Something shattered in Blair's eyes as his hand flew to his bruising cheek, feeling the ridges of the scar under his palm, then reformed in understanding. "No." he replied softly, grabbing up the Sten Simon had returned and hurrying out the door as the first booming shot rang out. 

Jim stopped short, alone in the centre of the room. He ran his fingers through his hair, hands turning to fists that clenched in the short strands. He'd messed up. Failed. Again. Situation Normal, All Fucked up, the story of his life. And now he'd SNAFU'd his lover to death 

There was another shot, a scream and he snapped into action, leaving his gun behind, tearing the door open so far the hinges split and broke as he darted outside. 

He had to find Blair. Protect him. 

Die with him. 

The first mortar shot struck the wall of the house behind him, blowing it out, percussion waves and hunks of flying rocks sending him flat on his face. Someone dragged him up, dragged him along, shoved a rifle in his hands, shouting orders in French. 

Joel. 

Jim tried to resist the arm, turning around, looking for Blair. He could see no sign of the smaller man, and his heart seized painfully. Had he already been too late? 

There was another dull crump from the tank, another building reduced to rubble and Jim's heart lifted as he saw a familiar figure with long brown hair streak from shelter to shelter, Sten down and firing, saw his mouth twist and curse as the bullets spattered harmlessly against the armoured metal, so close to the weak spot of the viewing ports. 

Like some malevolent beast, a dragon of old, the tank swivelled to face him, the gun cranking down, sending shell after shell at Blair's hiding place. 

Due to some miracle or accident, the smaller man was still alive, somehow finding a little cul-de-sac that protected him, even as the dust coated his clothes and concrete shards peppered his hair. 

Jim snapped. 

With a growl he snatched up the rifle Joel was thrusting at him and twisted up and around, bringing it down with the chamber loaded and cocked, training the sight along the sides of the behemoth, looking for a way to destroy the thing that had _dared_ think it could take his Blair. 

* * *

Simon darted from shelter to shelter, behind the concrete chunks, into gouged craters, along Maquis barriers, sweating, cursing, maybe even pissing his pants a little in stark mortal terror at the certainty of his death. Over and over his mind reminded him that the tank was the most perfect machine of war ever built. It could destroy the entire town, crush them all to bloody rags, and the operators wouldn't even have to come out. 

The only way a tank could be destroyed was with some seriously hard firepower - which they didn't have - or from the inside - which they weren't. 

Simon stripped off his Sten and threw it onto the ground, spitting on his hands in a false show of bravado. Time to play the stupid fool that saves everyone else and gets his poor battered corpse paraded around as a hero. Running straight out from the cover he took a high ledge, running parallel with the path of the tank. Because the operators cranked down to almost zero degrees in their attempts to continue the good old 'final solution' and were facing entirely the wrong direction, Simon took the chance. With a sound that was half vicious yell, half pure terror, he launched himself on top of the behemoth, sliding down the armoured plates and almost falling, feet scrabbling desperately at the rivets before he found a purchase. He heard the ratchets as the side guns tried to turn and hit a target right beside them, nearly shitting himself as a storm of bullets rattled past his ear, the wind of their passing ruffling the back of his shirt. 

The turrent at the top flew open and a soldier stood up, gun in his hand, proud, tall and utterly stupid as Jim had been waiting for the opportunity. The rifle cracked once in his hands, and the soldier flew backwards off the tank, face a bloodied ruin. Banks took the opportunity, dropping a few grenades down the suddenly exposed Achille's heel, and then dropped, arms over his head, rolling awkwardly across the dusty, rocky ground as they blew. 

The tank rumbled, like a dinosaur with indigestion, stopping, then lurching forward again. Another explosion sounded, and with a queer metallic whine it ground to a final halt. Then the interior exploded, metal and smoke flying high into the air. 

Blair used the belching smoke as camouflage, streaking across to crouch in front of the burning tank, using it as cover as he closed his eyes, crossed his fingers and whirled over one side, spraying bullets out over at the approaching soldiers. A returned shot took a chunk out of his hair and he yelped, diving back into the relative shelter of the tank, heart thudding. 

They were going to die. 

He knew it as certainly as the fact that he needed air. Maths had never really been his strong point, but it didn't need to be. To little of us. Too goddamned many of them. It wasn't fucking **FAIR!** Now he had something to live for, someone to love, the gods of fate had decided to take him. Blair felt his lips tighten in a hard line. Screw _that_ notion. 

_...You're going to die...._

But he was going to die _fighting._

* * *

They were holding their own. Delicately, teetering on the edge of destruction and defeat maybe, but they were holding their own, the blast from guns on both sides taking chunks out of the buildings like bizarre trophies, spent shells and red blood spilling onto the dusty ground in equal measures. 

Inch by agonising inch they were pressing the Germans back, knowing it was only a stopgap, knowing it was only a matter of time before their pitiful stores of ammunition and firepower ran out, until their ragged motley band of freedom fighters fell before professionally trained soldiers and the massacre began. 

Blair fought with the rest of them, revulsion pressed so far down it was unnoticed, choking on the dust grenades threw up as they blew craters in the roads, wiping his eyes furiously and praying for one more second of life, just one more, then another, then another. 

And then Jim was slipping and sliding into place beside him, his large hands wrapping around the Sten and pulling it from Blair's grasp, taking over his role. Any other man would have been killed. The fact that it was Jim doing the taking was the only reason he still breathed. "MERDE ALORS! Dammit, I am NOT a child!" Blair fumed, slamming the palms of both hands against the tank, hissing a little as the still-hot metal scorched his skin. 

"I never said you were." Jim ejected the spent clip from the gun and jammed a replacement in with the heel of his hand, all in one, practised movement. 

"THEN STOP TREATING ME LIKE ONE!" Blair snarled, ducking as a grenade landed off to their right, showering them with pebbles. With a growl, the Maquisard twisted to his feet in a graceful motion, pulling the pin and lobbing a grenade of his own in a high arc, over the tank, over their own men, to land somewhere behind the German lines. "What is next? You make me wear a dress??" he was so incensed that he was starting to lose his normally smooth grip on English. "Cut off my balls?? Dress me in silk stockings, high heels and parade me down the Champs Elysees as ta femme??" 

Jim stared, open mouthed, body automatically twisting, shooting, ducking, dodging, while his brain tried to comprehend what the hell he was hearing. "I- I just want to protect you..." he stammered helplessly. 

* * *

Rafe used the distraction from Blair's grenade to streak across the ground, sliding behind the scorched pile of stones blasted from nearby buildings, and slot in next to Sam. "How's things up here?" he breezed, unslinging his gun from his shoulder and spilling grenades onto the ground between them "Nice view? Don't think much of the neighbours though..." 

"Fuck off, Limey. " Sam ground out, the gas from her Sten sending her hair up in a brown wave as she fanned the weapon from side to side. 

"No date then, huh?" Rafe quipped, pulling the pin from a grenade and tossing it out into the mass of blue-grey uniforms approaching, all the time keeping one eye on Samantha. Joking and laughing aside, he didn't trust the flat-eyed maniac any further than he could throw her. To her, he was just a tool. Something to be kept as long as it was useful, then thrown away when it wasn't. Nothing more. While he checked his gun and returned a short burst of fire over the barricade, the movements now so familiar he could do them in his sleep, he wondered at what had turned her so hard. From what Blair had told him she was brilliant, beautiful, before the war a high student at the academy of science. 

Now she was a dirty, straggly, half -starved alley cat, snarling and spitting at anything that came too close. Another casualty of the war. 

Rafe saw his death staring at his face as another grenade looped towards them and flung his body over to protect the much smaller woman. "Look out!" 

With a snarl she shoved him off. "Emerdeuse publique!" she screamed. "Son of a who-" 

She was cut off sharply and finally as the grenade exploded. 

* * *

" _Protect me?_ The great Goddess save me from fools and idiots who want to _protect_ me!" Blair muttered, ducking as another Mills landed too close, throwing more dirt high in the air. A high-pitched scream broke the air in front of them, a woman's voice, short and brutally silenced and Blair lunged forward, anger forgotten, his own safety forgotten, everything forgotten as he dodged and skittered forward to the bolt-hole Sam and Rafe had occupied. 

"BLAIR!" He ignored the bellow from behind him, landing flat on his stomach as more guns rang out, eeling his way through the rubble and towards the ominous wisp of smoke and crumpled bodies within. 

Sam was dead. Bloodily and messily dead, sun-darkened skin split open like ripe fruit, red blood sucked greedily into the dry clay beneath her, brown eyes forever staring sightlessly at the sky. 

Blair didn't mourn. He didn't have time to mourn. Later, if he survived, he would cry for her, weep tears for the destruction of what was once a gentle life and soul, hope that somehow she found the peace in death that was so cruelly torn from her in life. But later. Now he had things to do, an automaton, body on autopilot while his soul grieved somewhere in a hidden place. Slapping a hand to the Englishman's neck, he found a steady pulse thrumming under his hand. Alive. 

Reaching down, he hooked his hands under Rafe's shoulders, dragging him back toward the safety of the burned-out tank, cringing and sobbing against every explosion that rang around them, but never once considering leaving the other man behind. He could hear Jim behind him yelling, shouting, the words jumbled in the chatter of machine gun fire and the dull ~crump~ of grenades, and pulled harder, grimacing against the other man's blood slicking his palms, desperate to get the British officer to safety, to get back to Jim's side and pick up a weapon, any weapon, even if it meant killing, something, anything to protect the man he loved. Worshipped. Breathed every breath of his life for. 

There was a single, sharp retort, and Blair shook his hair out of his eyes, so close to safety now, thinking it was odd that one sound should break so sharply over the cacophony of battle. 

Then the pain ripped through his shoulder, exploded out his back, setting every nerve on fire as the bullet tore its way through his flesh, and Blair barely had enough strength to drape his body protectively over Rafe's before falling into the blackness. 

* * *

Ellison screamed. 

It was a raw, primal knell, starting low in his lungs and ripping its way out of his mouth, louder and louder, cutting through the din of battle. For a brief, disbelieving moment everything around him froze, startled at the bellow of rage shearing the air. Then Jim was exploding into action, the only moving figure in the frozen tableau, whirling, standing, his Sten held rock-steady in his hands as he howled, a furious animal sound, spraying the bullets back and forth, moving forward, that awful sound going on and on, pouring from his very soul as he stood protectively over his fallen mate. 

" _Mon Dieu_ " Taggert whispered in awe, " Il est fou! Crazy! Dead!" 

And he should have been. James Ellison should not have lasted longer than thirty seconds, a prime target standing there, his gun firing and firing until it clattered onto an empty chamber. But he didn't. Because somewhere there was a God, a God who looked out for children and fools and absolute fucking psychos, and at that moment Jim certainly fit into the last category, throwing the empty, useless gun aside and running screaming at the Germans, intent on tearing them apart with his bare hands and teeth. 

"Merde!" Simon was up and running too, feet burning a parallel course, intent on bringing the smaller man down before they lost a trained fighter they damn well needed in a hot-blooded act of passion. 

Behind him, Joel cursed, long and hard, then got to his own feet. And then, as if it was some sort of signal, Brown followed, and Chang, then the others, like a group of French lemmings, screaming, shooting, throwing mud, anything that came to hand as they swarmed forward. No more than three hundred men and women, against nearly a thousand nazis, not subtracting the dead, dying and wounded. 

And it was too much. 

Incredibly, impossibly, wondrously too much. The Germans broke ranks and ran. Ran before the screaming howling horde of bean sidhe, ran before the grenades exploding around them, showering them with dirt and stones, ran before the handfuls of mud that spattered their precious uniforms. 

And the Maquis stopped. Stared disbelievingly, then broke into whoops and cheers. The men and women resigned a few short seconds ago to dying in battle had been given another chance. 

Ellison was silent, staring, so still he may as well have been stone. Simon and Brown moved around him, ignoring the shell-shock, concentrating on the two wounded men still under the Leftenant's protective stance. 

With the musician's help, Banks gently lifted the unconscious Sandburg to lie against him, pressing the palms of both hands against the entry and exit wounds to staunch the flow of blood. The bullet had gone straight through the right side of Blair's chest, near the shoulder, the resulting blood thick and red, hot against Simon's callused palms. The Maquisard Captain pressed an ear to the other man's lips, hearing the shallow, even breathing and thanked whatever deity had spared the younger man a wounded lung. 

Brown was checking over Rafe, brushing aside a lock of wavy hair to reveal the livid bruise smeared across the Englishman's temple, slowly fading down to mesh with the bloody marks peppering the handsome face. Fragments from the grenade. Ironically, Sam had saved his life by taking the brunt of the explosion. 

A few dark spots spattered the ground beside him and Brown looked up in alarm. "Jesus. Ellison!" 

It seemed that God had deserted them, after all. 

* * *

The surgeon in the overworked hospital didn't have time to fuss. He simply stitched together Sandburg's layers of torn muscle and skin like an old coat, dusted it with sulphanilamide, jammed a plasma IV into the back of his hand and shoved the gurney aside growling "Next. " 

For there was another. And another. And another. Wounded littered the halls, minor to major, a place of healing turned into a charnel house for victims of battle. 

Jim followed the stretcher blindly, barely aware of the concerned hands that tugged at him, made him sit, not even registering the sting of a needle as his own wound was stitched, eyes fixed on the still form lying on the bare mattress. 

Two harried, overworked orderlies took hold of the stretcher and Jim stood, pushing aside the nurse trying to tend to him, the torn edges of his shirt flapping around him as he moved through the confused jumble of moaning, bleeding bodies, following his lover as he was wheeled through the crowded halls. 

A room was found at the end of the hall, and Jim hovered in the doorway, watching with fixed eyes as Blair was moved to the bed. The orderlies arranged the IV and hastily left with the empty stretcher, returning to where many more awaited their care. 

Jim moved forward into the room, watching Blair's too-still face and untangled the blanket from the form in the next bed. The man was dead, only freshly so, judging by the residual warmth in the corpse. Jim took the time to raise the sheet over the dead face, feeling faintly ghoulish for stealing the blanket. But the man was already gone and Blair needed the warmth. 

Jim gently spread the blanket out over his lover, tucking the edges in over the thin gown, careful not to disrupt the IV, pausing to take the moment to run tender fingers over the small red path marring the pristine bandage on the smaller man's left shoulder, shuddering a little in fear at how close it had been. 

Blair's chest rose and fell with reassuring regularity, the even and deep breaths of a sleeper, and Jim settled himself in a battered chair, mesmerised by the continuous evidence of the other man's life. 

Of his own accord, his hand rose to touch Blair's unmarred cheek, the backs of his fingers gently stroking across the slightly stubbled surface. Blair leaned into the caress, a faint wrinkling of his brow and Jim soothed the lines away with a touch, trailing his fingers down to take hold of Blair's hand in his, feeling the warmth there, the pulse of blood revitalising tissues. 

Moving the chair closer to the bed, he held that hand to his chest, over his heart and waited. 

* * *

The moon began its journey through the sky and still Jim waited. The corpse had been taken away, the babble and cry of voices had dampened to a peaceful hush as the aftermath of battle slowly faded away. 

Blair had finally begun to stir, shifting a little on the thin mattress. Curled on his uninjured side, the faint moonlight shone on his face, bathing the rigid keloid of his scar in an ethereal light. 

Jim reached forward and ran hesitant fingers over the scar, forever imprinting it on his memory. No longer the hideous disfigurement that had marred the angelic features when they first met, it was now a badge of courage, of honour, in itself a thing of beauty, part of Blair, part of the man he loved, and no part of his angel could ever be wrong in his eyes. 

Leaning back in his seat, he took one of the smaller hands in his, absently running his thumb over the back, stirring the dark hairs there as he pondered the words Blair had snarled at him. Was the resistance fighter right? Did he force the smaller man into a feminine role? Did he assume a higher, unnecessary position, effectively castrating him? 

_No, of course not._ Jim shifted in the seat, one hand going to touch the bandage on his own arm, a little nick, a flesh wound not even felt. _I just want to protect him, that's all. Lord knows the kid could do with someone looking out for him, I mean, before I met him, he was..._ __

_...he was..._

Jim sat bolt upright as his own thoughts struck home. Before he met Jim, Blair had been a fighter. He had escaped from nazis not once, but twice, saving countless others, made his way to a resistance group, fought, and yet he still retained his humanity. Score three counts more than Jim himself had been able to do. 

What right did Jim have to control his life? Even attempt to? 

_Dans la vie, dans la mort._ together in life, together in death. He knew he would die without Blair. A certainty. Yet somehow hearing those words from the other man's mouth, the feeling reciprocated had infuriated him, flaring a torch in a deep dark place he never wanted to visit. 

He knew what it was. 

Pride. 

Stubborn remnants of the old facade clinging on, the savage Alpha Male beating at his chest and baring his teeth. It was the old way. The way he'd been brought up, the way he'd been lead to believe it was. Me Tarzan, you Jane. Go cook my food. Clean my kitchen. Warm my bed. 

Except, as he was fast learning, that wasn't the way you treated women. And even if it was, Blair wasn't a woman. He was a man. Every inch the man Jim was, perhaps more. 

Jim's world crumbled, reformed and crumbled again. He had nothing to cling to, no guidelines to follow, nothing like the time he courted and wooed his wife. Then there were rules. Then he knew what to do, how to treat a woman right, keep her. 

But now, there was nothing to follow. No precedent was set that he knew of. He was fumbling in the darkness, tripping and falling, terrified the fall would be forever. 

It was a feeling he knew, vaguely touched in the wild thrill of courting. But this time was a thousand times worse. Because this wasn't play-acting, wasn't something he could shape with his hands and keep part of his heart safe and distant on the shelf. This time he was involved, mind, body, heart, soul. And this time there was no safety net of marriage, nothing. Blair could turn and walk away from him without a backward glance, leaving Jim with nothing but a handful of precious ashes. 

And it terrified him. 

That snarling Alpha Male wanted to keep Blair close, bind him with fetters of orders, keep him obedient and subdued, but he knew better, his heart knew that such things would kill the fire, the life he loved, leaving behind a sick parody. 

Over, under, about and through, a tangled net of emotions that held him tighter with each step. 

"jim...?" the little voice from the bed snapped the bonds of terror that held his heart and he tried to move impossibly closer, one hand gently stroking Blair's flank as the other returned his lover's grip. 

"Right here, Blair. It's ok." 

Blair blinked at him, drinking in the sight. Alive, they were both alive. Safe, warm, cared for. He began to feel a little hope. They had survived against a seemingly insurmountable German attack, perhaps he could dare to dream. 

His eyes travelled over the beloved body, stopping at the white bandage peeping past a cut sleeve. Wincing, he struggled to sit and reached out with a trembling hand. "You're hurt..." 

Jim caught the hand and held it in his own. "Shh, it's ok, it's nothing, it's all right.." He eased Blair back down on the bed. "Try and rest, I'll be here," he promised. 

Blair sank back onto the mattress, eyes fluttering with fatigue, but refused to surrender to sleep. "Rafe?" he managed in a whisper so slight the Leftenant had to strain to hear it. 

"He's fine," Jim stroked the tumbled curls back, hoping he wasn't a liar. He had no idea of the Englishman's condition, eyes and ears only for his lover. "You saved his life, Chief," he added an affectionate name from his childhood, kissing his lover's face. "How's it feel to be a hero?" 

"Hurts." Blair chuckled weakly, then hissed as the motion jarred his wound. Jim squeezed his hand reassuringly and he smiled, taking another kiss, this time on the lips. "Sam?" he asked hesitantly, a terrible fear burning inside him. He could remember the explosion, running forward, but nothing after that. 

Ellison didn't reply, studying his hands, heart breaking. How could he tell his lover his last link to his old life was gone? 

"Jim?" 

The Leftenant looked up, and his eyes gave Blair the answer. 

"No.." Tears pooled in Blair's eyes and ran freely down his cheeks. "Jim, no, not her..not..." he burst into tears, one sob breaking free, then another, his uninjured hand flying up to cover his face. "Oh god Jim, please..." 

His own heart breaking, Jim gathered his lover into his arms, rocking him gently back and forth the lonely hospital room, the dim face of the moon the only witness to their sorrow. 

* * *

  
Blair had a two days to heal. Two days to mourn, to regain his strength,  
and then the warm blankets were replaced by his own tattered clothes, the  
soft mattress was replaced by hard ground and cold days as they ran.

Jim paced himself by the smaller man, watching him. Blair ran hard, feet pelting across the ground, head bent and teeth ground together so tightly they almost splintered and broke. He shouldn't have been out of hospital. Or Rafe. Hell, half of them belonged in beds, being cared for. But they were running instead. 

The Germans had returned in force, taking Saint-Nizier inch by bloody inch, blasting their way through the hastily erected barricades and the tired fighters behind them, once-living people reduced to bloody rags trampled under uncaring boots. 

So they were running. Deeper into the mountainous territory, towards Vassieux, Vercors, needing to warn the resistance cells there by word of mouth, because the radio was left in thirty sparking pieces when the operator was cut in two by a schmeisser. 

They finally made it into Vassiex, not quite the band they had hoped, bearing fresh ammunitions and hope, but a dusty, gasping motely group of rebels, nothing but the shirts on their backs and sometimes not even that. 

The pressure off, the danger at bay for now, Jim swept his lover up into his arms and carried him into the house someone had secured for them. He didn't know who - Simon perhaps, Joel or Megan, it didn't matter. Blair didn't protest the motion, clinging to him as his legs wobbled, the adrenaline rush fading and his tired and battered body making its complaints known. Megan scavenged a battered old kit from somewhere - everything they had was lost at St. Nizier, save for the ever-present weapons - and followed them inside, gentle hands professionally checking over the healing wound in Blair's shoulder and pronouncing it sound. 

When she had finished, Blair had recovered some of his spark, trailing cheeky fingers over Jim's thigh where he was seated beside him, bigger and smaller, varying the pattern, scampering up and down. It had been a _long_ two days. 

With a knowing smile and an exaggerated rolling of her eyes, Conner left them to it, gathering up her kit and heading outside, where others still needed her care. 

With a strained grin, Jim gently disengaged his lover's hand, resting the curled fingers on the flat plane of Blair's stomach. Blair blinked up at him surprise, then let out a startled yelp as his pants were whisked away. 

To his disappointment, Jim then got up and disappeared. There was the creak of an ancient faucet, the splatter of water into a basin, then Jim reappeared with a damp cloth. Helping the Maquisard out of his shirt, Jim gently ran the cloth over the revealed skin, carefully wiping away the dust and sweat. 

Blair sighed happily and enjoyed the sensation. Sex it was not, but it felt so good to be clean again that he didn't object. 

He giggled and shifted a little as Jim danced the material over his ticklish ribs, then the sound became deeper, more passionate as the water trailed scorching fibres to his groin 

With a growl, Jim shucked his own clothing and settled himself over his lover, straddling him, careful to rest his weight on his own heels and not the smaller man. It had been a long two days for him as well. Blair grinned gaily up at him, hair mussed and face flushed. His penis bobbed slightly like some fairground toy as Jim shifted his weight, rocking the mattress and Ellison found himself drawn to the motion, intrigued. Shifting back, he took a hesitant lick, drawing back as Blair's hips jerked up conulsively. Rocking back onto his heels again, he studied his lover's face, noting the wild eyes alive with an indescribeable ectasy with some sadness. How long had it been since Blair had been pleasured? Given something for him and him alone? 

Resolve firmed inside him. Today. 

Dipping his head, he licked again, again, the smaller man's taste exploding over his tastebuds in a rainbow of sensations. Tastes were colours were scents were sounds and he opened his mouth wider, wanting more and more. He rubbed his tongue along the underside of the other man's shaft, trying to imitate the motions Blair had used on Jim himself. He didn't know how successful his attempts were, but he judged them to be pretty close by the strangled mewls escaping Blair's throat, the way his head thrashed from side to side in pure carnal pleasure. 

Pulling away with difficulty, Jim replaced his mouth with his hand, sliding it up and down the slick shaft as he shifted up to capture his lovers nipples, lovingly treating each pebbled mound to a gentle tongue bath. The mewls above his head began to take on a note of urgency, and he shifted further, the light fur on the Maquisards chest brushing like a cat against his cheek as he made his way to his lover's lips. 

Blair latched eagerly onto him, hips jerking spasmodically into Jim's firm grasp, his own hand rising to trail down Jim's chest. Slender fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking, caressing, one firm pump, two, and the world dissolved into a haze of bright light and primal howls. 

* * *

  
Jim blinked up at the ceiling. He was hot, sweaty, covered in highly  
dubious body secretions, smelled like a whorehouse in the middle of summer,  
and it would have taken a tank to smash the smile off his face. Someone  
was wrapped around his body, stroking his hair and cooing something in  
French into his ear.

 Jim's brow wrinkled as he translated the phrase. "Teddy bear?" 

 "Hmmmm...." Blair sucked gently on his earlobe, then blew a stream of warm air across it, making the Leftenant shiver. "Big teddy bear. _My_ teddy bear," he slipped a leg between Jim's, rubbing his calf with warm toes. "All mine." 

 Jim groaned as he felt the rock-hard erection poking him in the hip. "You're going to kill me..." 

 "A favoured way to go, oui?" Blair started a maddeningly gentle up and down motion along his lover's body. The soft feel of flesh stroking flesh very quickly became too much, and Jim rolled over to pin the smaller body with his own, bringing them into a delightfully satisfying contact. 

 The cry of pain from his lover drenched his passion, leaving only a few smouldering pieces of charcoal as he rolled quickly to his side. "Blair? Oh god, Blair, I'm sorry, I forgot, are you all right?" 

 Blair gritted his teeth and patted the taller man's cheek. "It's ok, It's nothing." He gingerly pushed himself upright with his good arm, then sat in Jims lap. "But I think we had better do it this way." Jim put his hands on the other man's hips, but was stopped with a soft touch. "No, another way." He pushed Jim down gently to rest on the pillows, stroking his penis until it was hot and full. Raising himself up on his knees, he positioned himself over the proud cock while Ellison watched wide-eyed. 

 "Blair?" 

 Sandburg didn't meet his eyes, staring fixedly at some point below and to the right on the patterned sheet. "I learnt this, from...the General. He liked it. Maybe you will like it too." Eyes dulled against the expected pain, he started to sit. 

 "No!" Jim pulled him up and away, leaping off the bed, whole body trembling with different emotions; anger at what Blair had proposed, hot shame at his own arousal. "I don't want that, Blair. I don't want anything you had to sell." Belatedly he realised what the words sounded like coming from his'mouth and cursed himself a thousand times for being a stupid oaf. "Oh Christ. Blair, baby, I didn't mean it like that." He knelt by the side of the bed, one hand reaching up to caress a slightly bristled jaw. "I don't want you to have to do this. Please. Not anything they made you do, anything you had to do, please, that isn't us," the words were falling faster from his lips as he brought his other hand up, both cupping the proud face as he ducked his head a little, trying to meet the downcast eyes. "If you don't want to, say no, just say no, it'll be ok. You don't have to do this with me, ever, not anything you don't want to do, ok?" 

 "Jim." Finally Blair raised his eyes to meet twin blue. "I want to do this. With you. Please, I need, I want.." He thumped an aggravated fist onto his thigh with a growl. "I want you in me. I feel ..bad. Taken. I want to give, Jim," he demanded, reaching down and hauling on the other man's arm so they were face to face. "I want to be clean. I want to give this to you so I can be clean again." He interlaced his fingers with the Leftenant. "Please, let me _give_ this," he begged. "For you, only for you." 

 Jim held their joined hands to his cheek for a long time. "I don't know.." he caught the smaller man's chin as his face turned away in shame. "Hey... Maybe if you tell me about it? You know, what we do?" 

 Blair blinked at him, then forced a shift in his brain, reminding himself his lover had never known anything like this before. Had never been forced to sell favours for the survival of those he loved. Coldly, emotionlessly he began to speak, his mind only vaguely connected to his mouth, close enough to make the tale, but far enough away so that he wouldn't have to relive the memories that crept up on him, threatening to tear away his sanity in one clawing stroke. 

 Jim knelt there for a long moment, then fell backwards, butt thudding on the carpet. His mouth moved around soundless, half-formed words, then he exploded. "Jesus Christ!" Ellison focused on the one point he could handle, insinuations from the account of what had happened to his Blair hidden away in a dark part of his soul, a reality he couldn't face, didn't _want_ to face, didn't want to acknowledge, wanted left lying alone to rot to harmless dust. "Blair, I don't pretend to know the first thing about this...this..." he waved his hands in the air, "But I know from my medical exams at least you gotta _use_ something. Even the doc's at the recruitment station did that, and I swear they kept those damn stethoscopes of theirs on ice!" The attempt at humour fell flat as Blair blinked at him. 

"Like what?" 

 Jim gaped, thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't know. I think they used petroleum jelly or something -" 

 "Don't have any." 

 "Or maybe oil?" 

 "Oil?" Blair shuddered and tucked his feet under his bottom protectively. "From an automobile??" 

 " _No,_ " Jim couldn't believe he was having this conversation. Think. Improvise. It was what he was trained for, after all. "Maybe something like cooking oil?" 

 " _Cooking oil???_ " Blair was starting to chuckle at the turn the conversation had taken. "What else? Sauce? Mushrooms? Sautee mon derriere?" He toppled over backwards on the bed, body convulsing with hilarity. Jim snorted, then lost it, staggering forwards and nearly missing the bed as he collapsed helplessly with laughter. It was too funny, the vision of Blair with his butt up in the air, being dusted with spices for cooking. 

 Still giggling a little, Jim reached over and pinched one firm buttock. "A little lean," he said with the air of a connoisseur. "I think you need a few more days in the pasture to fatten up." 

Blair yelped and pinched him back. "Too tough," he pronounced his verdict, trying to keep a straight face. "I would need many days preparation and herbs to soften you." 

Jim rolled over and nibbled lightly on the other man's neck. "On second thoughts, I could eat you now.." he breathed, working his way slowly down Blair's uninjured shoulder. Blair lolled his head and moaned, then took a kiss. "This doesn't change things," he whispered quietly, breath coming a little faster now. 

 Jim shook his head. He didn't want his lover to relive that taint, to associate any part of what they were with what had happened before. "Blair-" 

 "I want you Jim. Inside me, I want to feel you." He stroked his fingers over his lover's cheek. "I don't want to be Jim and Blair in our lovemaking any more. I want to be _us._ l'une et autre." 

 Jim captured the hand in his and held it for a long moment, thinking of what Blair was asking. A connection. A Joining. Neither one or the other, _both._ Two halves of the same soul. 

"Oui," he whispered after a long moment. 

* * *

"Well?" Blair looked up expectantly as Jim re-entered the bedroom from his search. After a long argument, the Maquisard had acquiesced to Jim's demand for some sort of lubricant. He had survived many times without it, couldn't really see the point of garnish on what could be a hideously painful act, but it seemed a small price to pay in the light of what he would be receiving. 

Redemption. 

Shamefully, Jim held up a bottle of olive oil. 

Blair threw his head back and laughed, his good hand and feet drumming on the mattress. Images of being basted and fried exploded into his mind and he clamped his hand over his mouth, trying to dampen the hysterical, nervous laughter that was attempting to bubble out. Finally he calmed down enough to sit next to his lover on the bed, the extra hand and exploring mouth hindering, rather than helping the undressing procedure. 

After a few pleasurable delays, Jim was as naked as the Maquisard, holding the bottle of oil his hands. He tilted it up and down for a few moments, watching the way the amber fluid shifted back and forth in its glass prison. _Time to bit the bullet, Ellison._

He poured a small amount in his hands, then rubbed them together, smearing the oil evenly over his palms. An eager third hand helped him smooth the liquid over his member, both of them giggling nervously like schoolgirls. Jim shivered as the oil dripped down, his own body heat rising with his arousal, trapped in the covering and reflected back down on sensitive skin, making him even harder. He nearly came right there and then from the feeling, and did when Blair delicately circled his nipples with oil-dampened fingertips and leaned in for a nibble. Blair nuzzled and licked him clean, his tongue a soft caress and almost impossibly Jim got hard again. He hadn't had this quick a reload since he was sixteen. 

More oil was applied, this time using a soft, light touch, the time for games over, then Blair shifted away, moving to the centre of the bed. 

Dripping with oil and hard as a rock, the Leftenant sat there, watching the smaller man like a frightened animal about to bolt, dark blue eyes raising to meet his. A single moment frozen in time. They were going to do this. No more talking, no more playing, it was time. 

Jim broke the silence first. "Um, how do I...which..." He made a see-sawing motion with his hands. "How do you want to...lie?" he asked awkwardly. 

Blair sat up and considered the question. " _They_ always wanted me on my stomach or knees for sex." He laid down carefully on his back. " _I_ want to see you when we make love." There was a slight quaver in his voice, the air of a man used to receiving orders in bed, not offering suggestions. 

"Then that's how we do it," Jim stated, face deadly serious. 

Closing his eyes, Blair took a deep breath and raised his knees, slowly spreading his legs out to the sides, trying to banish daemons of the past, trying to ignore the phantom hands that grabbed and restrained him possessively. They were all gone now. This was Jim, Jim would never harm him. He reminded himself of the fact, over and over, regulating his breathing against the old, ingrained panic scrabbling at him. It slowly subsided, pushed away by a love and a need for connection, and when he was calm and centred, he opened his eyes again. 

Jim was kneeling between his legs, watching him, blue orbs fearful and concerned. With a reassuring smile, Blair reached down and caught one of the hands gently stroking the outside of his thighs, giving it a little prompting squeeze. 

"Are you sure?" Jim asked in a hushed tone, his own arousal painfully obvious but ignored as his eyes skittering over Blair's naked body to lock on the rosy pucker between his legs. "It looks so...small." 

Blair smiled a little. "It's big enough," he said, a touch of sadness in his voice. "It stretches with you inside." 

Jim leaned forwards and brushed his index finger across the entrance. Blair jerked and hissed instinctively at the touch and the remembered pain it brought, forcing himself to draw the sound out into something pleasurable. Seemingly satisfied, Jim moved closer. 

Sandburg caught his breath, the motion unnoticeable as Jim gently lifted his hips to sit on strong thighs, fingers still stroking and calming as he slowly moved forwards, pressing against the little entrance. He felt the slow burn as it popped through the ring of muscle inside his body, an all-too familiar sensation, and reflexively clenched his jaw. Then he forced taut muscles to relax, a practised pattern of release down his body, from his jaw down his feet. Tensing only made the pain worse. 

_...It's going to hurt. You're going to tear and scream and bleed..._

He forced the thought away, opening his eyes and concentrating on the tender face at the end of the bed. Jim's face was studious, his movements slow and careful as he eased his way inside, eyes flicking from his entry to the smaller man's face, looking for any signs he should stop. 

Blair felt it from the inside, a fullness spreading throughout him. It had never felt like this before. Jim fit him perfectly, like they were made for each other, two halves of a whole. He felt the other man moving smoothly inside him, gliding, not chafing and tearing, no pain or fear, just an overwhelming sense of awe at the act. Jim finally stopped with a little grunt, completely sheathed, the two of them joined in the most intimate of ways. 

Jim looked down at the point where he ended and Blair began, then looked up. "It fits," he said in a little whisper, unable to voice the wonder at it, being part of Blair, physically, _inside_ him, surround by him. He bent down to taste the full lips, then gathered Blair up into his arms so they were both upright, no movements except that slow, gentle kiss, revelling in the feel of connection. 

He felt Blair's arms around him, his legs coiling around his waist. The smaller man seemed content to be held, not like Caroline who demanded action, not like Caroline who raked his back with her sharp nails, not like... 

Not like... 

He didn't know any more, didn't care, his whole world narrowed down to a single moment in time, the feel of his lover in his arms, the feel of the arms around him, the slender fingers trailing through the sweat on his back, tracing a thousand loving, nonsensical words written in Sanskrit and saying more than any clumsy spoken language ever could. 

Jim had heard the songs about moons and the stars, but never believed them, too jaded, too experienced, laughing at the crooning singers in their little suits, knowing the reality was harsher and crueller than any musician dared tell. 

How wrong he had been. 

Cradling his heart in his arms, he lowered them both to the bed again, this time Blair on top. He lifted his hips a little, and heard the answering gasp from his lover, the soft hissed sound like a choir of angels. 

Blair felt his eyes fly wide open as Jim moved deep inside him, brushing a secret, hidden place he never knew existed. A quick shiver started deep within him, a little orgasm, ripples of pleasure spreading out from the contact and through his body. Jim repeated the motion and it happened again, stronger this time, coiling up his back and he moaned aloud, bearing down on the fullness inside him. He'd never dreamed it could be like this! 

Blindly he latched onto the other man's lips, curling his good hand over the broad shoulder as they moved, faster now. He brought his other hand up as well, the aching pain from the bullet wound forgotten in the waves of pleasure taking him over. He moved up, and his erection brushed over the taut stomach, down, and the hardness inside him sent ecstasy throughout his entire being, both sensations driving him out of his mind. He felt the chest under his quicken, breaths snatched as they moved even faster now, all sense of rhythm lost as they both strained towards something sparkling just out of reach, something perfect... 

And then they reached it and they howled as it exploded inside them, heat coursing through their veins, feeling their bodies respond to the completion as twin souls merged and shrieked in ecstasy. 

_One._

* * *

Jim yelped and leapt up into the air as a hand pinched his backside. Reflexively he looked around for Blair, to find him a little aways, leaning on a pick-ax and chuckling. Turning, he saw Serena give him a saucy grin and a little wave before moving off, still making little pincer movements at him with her fingers. 

Shaking his head a little, Jim returned to his task, feeling the warm sun beat down on his naked back. Good work, solid work, stretching his muscles and reminding him sometimes you didn't need to carry a gun to do some good. 

They were digging an airstrip, tamping out and flattening the rough ground for planes, Allied planes, that would be arriving with supplies. The weapons would be used by the Maquis to sabotage the efforts of the Germans rushing to stem the growth of the foothold gained in Normandy. Slowly but surely, the nazis were being pushed back. Ridiculously the patrols hunting resistance had increased, more people needed to watch and scout for arriving Germans. Those who weren't scouting were off killing nazis, or helping with the airstrip. 

Jim, Blair, Joel, Brown, Rafe, Simon and Megan all leant their shoulders to the work, pick-axes and shovels against the hard, rock encrusted earth. Serena carried buckets of scree away from the strip and generally enjoyed the view of all the half-naked men, occasionally keeping her hand in, as it were. 

Concerned about his lover's still-healing shoulder, Jim tried to take the heavy pick-ax from him, only to be met with a disgusted glare and a thinly veiled threat about metal points in inconvenient places if he didn't stop mothering. With a wry chuckle, Jim took a shovel instead, digging around the large rock they were trying to remove so that the smaller man could wedge the aforementioned point underneath it. Using the handle as a lever, he pried it up high enough for both of them to get a handle on it and throw it over to the ever-growing collection littering the hillside.  It landed with a dull thump in the damp ground, the impact sending little spatters of mud up into the air.  Despite the warmth of the sun, the high, cool air of the Vecors mountains had trapped night rains, making working conditions muddy, slimy and _wet._

The air had a vibrancy to it, the thought that the Germans were finally being driven back, the Allies were helping, they were no longer alone sparking long buried hopes in their hearts, even the hardened fighters that knew the fragility of the dream. 

Everyone was buzzed, energised, the general feeling like a public holiday: Christmas and Easter and Ramadan and Hannukah and New Years and birthdays all rolled into one.  They were drunk on it, almost goofy, the mood lending to playful idiocy. 

Jim was wrestling a rock out of the clingy mud when the first blow struck. 

_splat_

Something wet and slimy landed against the seat of his pants.  Jim straightened hurriedly, looking around. 

Everyone studiously ignored him, doing their own work. 

Turning, Jim wrapped his hands around the rock and tugged again. 

_splat_ _splat_   Two hits. Different sources. Jim straightened again and treated the general countryside to a laser glare.  Everyone seemed suitably humbled and chagrined, so he bent to his task, this time gathering a palmful of mud.  He stuck his ass up in the air and wiggled it temptingly.  He didn't have too long to wait. 

_splat_ _splat_ _splat_ _splat_ _splat_

With a roar, the Leftenant spun on his heel, sending mudballs out at the offending parties. Blair. Joel. Megan. Rafe. Brown.  Three of them were hit dead on, the smack of mud extremely satisfying. Megan ducked and Blair had already shifted out of the way. 

Feeling mud drip off his ass, Jim stalked his lover, growling.   Blair chuckled, then laughed, scooting backwards through puddles and rocks until his lover struck, sending them both rolling over and over in soft mud. 

When they finally stopped, Jim latched onto his mouth, and Blair returned the kiss hungrily.  When they broke, he saw Megan grinning down at them and tossed a handful of mud at her.  She sidestepped and tried to back away, but Jim hooked his foot behind her ankle and brought her down. 

That was the start. 

With a strangled shriek, Megan fell butt-first in a puddle. Growling, she immediately scooped up a slimy handful and spattered it across the two laughing men.  Behind her, Joel laughed so hard he fell backwards, his butt making an odd plopping sound as it hit the mud.  The sound made him laugh harder, and he clutched at his stomach weakly, rolling back and forth, uncaring of the mud that was slowly turning his clothes a uniform black. 

Brown and Rafe immediate pounced on the weakness, almost burying the big man under mud like eager kids making their parents sand islands at the beach.  Joel’s full-bodied laugh roiled across the air as they wrestled, mud flying in all directions. 

Deciding the odds were unfair, Megan, Jim and Blair waded in, turning the fairly harmless puddle into a giant swamp. 

Simon stood aloof, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, until a double handful of mud down his pants, courtesy of Brown and Rafe, and a determined leg yank from Megan and Joel sent him squelching into the fray with a bellow that promise vengeance. Shouting in delight, Blair pinned the big man down, smearing mud all over his shirt, only to be sent flying by a tackle from Jim.  He landed lightly in the mud, cradled in his lover’s strong arms and his face and neck were playfully gnawed. 

Serena chose that moment to return with a basket of food for the poor hardworking dears, only to be descended upon by a horde of starving mud monsters.   She shrieked and tried to run, only to be grabbed around the waist by Jim's strong arms, divested of the basket by Blair and tossed lightly into the mud. 

The promise of food quickly ended the mud fight and they headed to the safety of higher ground.  Mud-covered hands were hastily swiped off on the grass, eager mouths devouring the food.  The bread was flat, stale, mud-touched and absolute ambrosia to the workers. 

Jim settled himself quite happily in his lover’s lap, munching on Sandburg’s meal, occasionally holding his own piece up to the full lips to keep it even. 

Bread in one hand, mud in the other, Simon carefully picked a worm out a clot of mud in his lap and peered at it. "Go home." He tossed it away "Before I eat you too." 

Megan made a gagging noise. "Simon, that’s revolting." 

Simon cocked a brow at her. "This from the woman who eats horse gonad pie?" 

Megan gagged and threw another wad of mud. "That’s the Great Aussie Pie you’re insulting, snail muncher." 

Rafe hooted with laughter "Snail muncher!!" 

Brown poked him. "What’re _you_ laughing at, Mr. Spotted Dick?"  The comments (and desert) were treated with the derision and noises of revulsion they deserved. 

Blair grinned cheekily around a mouthful of bread.  The two lovers had exchanged positions again, and now he was quite comfortably sprawled in Jim’s lap.  "Ever been to Mexico?"  He chuckled evilly. "You should see what they eat there." 

"Sandburg..." Simon turned green in the face of the coming knowledge. 

"What do they eat, Sandy?" Megan belched against the back of her hand "Sorry." 

Blair paused, waiting until he had his audience captive.  "Salamanders." 

"Oh merde." Joel buried his muddy face in his muddy hands, all thoughts of food now _far_ away. 

"Salamanders?" Brown wrinkled his brow in confusion. "As in those big lizardy things that are supposed to be fireproof? Bullshit." 

"No, they do!" Blair sat up, waving his bread in one hand, eyes alight with evil glee. "They do.  They slice them up into strips for their tortillas.." 

"Sandburg..." 

"...and they mash them up into this slimy gluggy paste for their soups.."  the anthropologist seemed oblivious to the green faces around him. 

"Sandburg..." 

"And they also-" 

"SANDBURG!"  The Maquisard jumped at the bellow from Simon. 

"Sir?" he babbled reflexively. 

"Ta guele," the Captain said kindly. 

Above them, a German spyplane banked and turned. 

* * *

Jim stood on a hill, hands on hips, surveying the landing strip. It was done. Finished. A smooth strip of rock-free land looking oddly out of place in the hilly landscape. It looked like someone had stuck a ruler in the middle of the forest, a toy left over from a child's play. But this time there were no toys or playthings. Planes would be landing soon. Allied planes. With Allied weapons. _Real_ weapons, not cheapshit Stens that jammed on a clip when you needed them most, not mouldy old cartridges spattered with mud. Weapons that _weren't_ guaranteed to blow up in your face as soon as you pulled the trigger. And medical supplies. Food. Allied fighters, more OSS and SOE, Free French from England, fresh blood to strengthen their tired ranks. 

For the first time, Jim actually believed they could win the war. _Believed,_ not a childish hope that good would defeat evil, the German dragon slain with a magical sword. 

His sharp eyes focused on a figure clambering up the hill towards him, and a broad grin broke over his face as he trotted down to meet it. 

"They're here!" Blair threw his arms around Jim's neck and kissed him soundly. "The planes. They spotted them from the high hills, with binoculars," he babbled. "The Allies! Their planes are here!" 

Jim followed the tugging hand back up to the little knot above the air strip. Blair pointed up to the vague black spots in the air. "See them?" he whooped. "The Allied sailplanes!" 

Jim focused on the little dots, trying to see them more clearly, knowing it was a useless venture. He fancied he could hear the whisper of air from the engineless gliders being towed by the approaching planes, then his vision suddenly hyperfocused, and he could see black crosses marking the smooth sides, his hearing kicked in, he could hear the rotation of _trimotors_ a plane the Allies no longer used. 

And suddenly realised what they were. Junker Ju 53/3. 

_German_ planes. 

Blair was ready to make a mad dash down to the air strip and Jim jerked him back with an iron grip, screaming, even though he knew there was no hope the poor bastards down the hill could hear him. "NO! LOOK OUT!" 

"Jim!" Blair was trying to pull his arm free. "What the hell are you doing?" 

Jim grabbed him by both arms now, his voice low and desperate. "Look at them. _Listen._ Fixed landing gear. Trimotors. _They aren't the Allies._ " And then he was running to their pathetic stock of heavy weapons, pawing for something large enough to take a plane down in flight, knowing it was too late, one had already landed. 

And then the screaming started. 

Beside him, Blair turned pale. Then his face turned rock hard and he was snatching up clips, running down the hill to the landing strip, Sten in one hand, clips madly bouncing and falling from his other fist. 

"BLAIR!" Jim snatched up his own weapon and ran after him, cursing all half-crazed psychotic little French anthropologists with hearts as big as the world and guts to match. 

Face set, Blair hauled a poor, dead corpse from behind the Vickers mounted on the edge of the airstrip and slid into the seat behind the heavy machine gun, letting loose on the black uniforms below. 

Jim tore his shirt off and wrapped it around his hands, grabbing the bucking feed belt for the gun, keeping it straight to stop the chamber jamming. The hard shells quickly tore through the material and into his hands, but he ignored it, concentrating on the task. 

A heavy shot nearby brought his head up, and he saw Simon and Rafe on the 13.8 millimetre, firing round after round into the sky. Three gliders fell like dead birds to crumple on the ground. But they kept coming, more and more. There were at least seven gliders on the airstrip now. With a compliment of at least forty each. Nearly _three hundred SS._

And they were _still_ coming. 

"BLAIR! WE HAVE TO LEAVE!" There was no way in hell they could hold out. Not with nearly half their men dead or dying, crawling away from the airstrip as bullet-ridden corpses, too far gone to even know it yet. 

Sandburg either didn't hear him or didn't care, hauling the gun around in the greasy mount in a fanning motion, finger pressing mercilessly down on the firing trigger. Jim let go of the belt in desperation and it bucked wildly, jamming the gun. 

With a curse, Blair leaned down to clear it and was hauled out of the seat by one bloody hand. "BLAIR!" He looked up into Jim's face. Looked at the carnage, counting numbers now, not never-ending targets. And nodded, grabbing his Sten, stumbling to keep up with his lover's longer strides as he was hauled across the rocky ground, stumbling over every one of the stones they had painstakingly dug out of the airstrip to welcome the Allies. 

People around them were falling to the ground, dying, screaming. The weird blarting noise of the Schmeissers shattering the air as they ran. 

Jim hauled the smaller man along behind him, then to his side, pushing him ahead, forcing him to keep going when he would have stopped, turned back into that slaughteryard to help. "RUN!" 

Blair ran. Reaching back desperately to grip the shirt of the man running behind him, protecting him with his own body, clinging blindly, the two of them looking like a carnival horse as they vanished into the woods, up the high hill that snarled at their feet, catching ankles on rocks, towards the Step of the Needle. 

Blair ran. 

* * *

Somehow they collided with the others, coincidence, or maybe that Kismet or Karma his mother had been so fond of, nightmarish flashes of familiar faces, harsh lungs pounding with the need for air. He caught  a glimpse of Megan’s hair, the red beret Brown was so fond of, running, running until he thought his lungs would burst, hearing the crash behind them as they were pursued, the Germans finding them and chasing them, spurring his feet faster and faster until his mind stopped existing and there was nothing but the chase as they head for the narrow slit of a cave mouth so close. 

Simon stumbled in front of them and Jim pushed his body to the limits and beyond, an extra burst of speed powered by pure primal fear, grabbing  handfuls of the Captain’s shirt and bodily hauling him upwards and onwards, literally shoving him through that narrow slit. 

There was a burst of gunfire behind them and Blair screamed with a voice he didn’t know he still had, using air he didn’t,  sure he was hit.  He heard another scream in front of him, higher pitched, a woman’s voice. 

"SERENA!" Blair flung himself forwards and grabbed the woman, hauling her over his shoulder, stumbling under the weight as he forced his legs to run, knowing she was probably dying or already dead, knowing that he should leave the body behind and save himself. The knowledge lasted in his brain for precisely 1.3 seconds. 

He felt Jim and Simon grab him as he fell flat on his face so agonisingly close to the cave, dragging him in, dirt and stones scraping painfully along his body and into his mouth. Then he was inside, feeling the sharp slivers of rock ricocheting away from the impact of bullets on the mouth of the cave to pepper his back and legs. 

He felt himself being pulled into a fierce hug, like a frightened child and found he didn't mind at all, returning the embrace just as fiercely, ignoring the sting on his skin from the rock fragments, ignoring the dirt smeared on his face, ignoring the fact that his lover's Beretta was drilling him a new navel. It was hard and it was desperate, but it was all they could have, here and now, huddling together in a cave. 

Blair waited until his eyes adjusted to the dim light before looking around, chest heaving as he dragged in air. Twenty three people were crammed into the cave, a pitiful handful of survivors from Vercors.  Frightened faces peered at him in the narrow space, no light, no room, hardly any air, bodies pressed close, fear stinking the cave.  The narrow entrance prevented the Germans from entering, being held back by lone guns and pelted rocks, but it also stopped them from escaping.  They were stuck, trapped, their haven destined to become their tomb. 

The Germans retreated, waiting, and there was nothing left to do.  Nothing but sit there and listen as their friends died around them, those who couldn’t escape the town in time. 

The Maquis bit their cheeks, shivering from the heat of too many bodies trapped too close, experience lending their imaginations realities far more horrible than they could have dreamed alone. 

All except for Ellison. 

Slumped against the cave, eyes glazed, he suddenly drew in a sharp breath.  Blair flew to his side, terrified his lover was hit, injured, frantically running his hands over the tense form in search of blood.  Below them they could hear the faint crack of guns, odd popping sounds like children’s firecrackers, adding a ghoulish merriment to the darkness of their world.  People were dying down there. 

And Jim heard every sound. 

Every shot, every scream, every choked dying whimper from their people in the village. The crack as the lucky ones were shot outright. The pathetic gasps from those who weren't, those who were see-sawed or crippled, left to watch their own blood seep out onto the ground as their guts screamed in torture. The shriek of a child trapped in a building doused with flamewerfer. 

He twisted against the sound, a symphony of the damned, shrieking and tearing at him from hell's mouth until he was sure he was insane. He reached out blindly, hands splaying across the cold, damp rock, reeling, searching for something to hold to, something to make it stop, just make it all stop, _please._

It led his other senses into rebellion, the smell of blood and urine assaulting his nose, the dim light of the cave twisting and turning into a darkness that threatened to swallow him whole, each sensation, every fragment of his perception turning on him with vicious fangs. He felt madness tempting him, holding onto reality with the slimmest of grips, bloodied fingers slipping and sliding as he was drawn into the abyss. 

 He felt a familiar warmth enfold him, a soothing sound caress his ears and fell into it, seeking some kind of succor from the death clamouring at his mind, a wailing daemon reaching out with fetid skeletal hands for his very soul. 

Blair wrapped his arms around the larger man's head, pressing him to his chest, trying to act as a buffer, his body a soundproof wall, protecting against whatever it was that frightened Jim so, tears pouring down his face as he tried to understand. 

And all of a sudden Jim felt peace. The screaming faded down to an unholy whispering and he burrowed deeper into his lover's body, trying to climb inside the smaller man, into the shelter he offered from the cold madness scrabbling at his brain. 

"It's ok," he heard Blair's frightened whisper above his head as he was rocked, gently. "It's ok mon ours. It's ok." He felt feather-light, desperate kisses raining on his head and face, long fingers entwining with his. "Al tibahel, I'm here, I'm here..." 

The screams were gone, the gunshot mere pops in the distance.  Clinging to his lover, Jim slowly straightened, pulling in a deep breath.  He felt Blair’s hands cup his face and reached up to capture one, pressing his lips to it, to the smaller man’s wrist his face, tender, worshipful kisses, awed that the power the little man had to keep even madness at bay.  He felt small tremors racing through the other man’s frame, knowing his own was trembling just as hard,  exhaustion and fear in the soft, well-known voice.  "Are you all right?" 

"Blair..." Jim hauled the Maquisard into an embrace, wrapping his arms around him, cocooning him in warmth. 

"Shh, I’m here, It’s all right, shh," he felt slender fingers gently stroke his back, feeling the shakes increase as the terrified adrenaline faded. "shh, shh,"  The shakes spiked, then faded, and Blair leaned back against the damp wall, drawing his head to rest his chest. "Shh, sleep now, mon ours, shh.." 

Protected and loved, Jim fell into an exhausted sleep. 

* * *

Eyes blinking open, Jim awoke slowly. At first everything seemed black, then light slowly seeped into the cave from the entrance, fine cracks in the walls.  The air was cool around them, rippling with the breaths and movements of the other bodies crammed around them.  He gently raised his head from his lover’s chest, stretching cramped muscles as best he could in the miniscule space.  His foot nudged a Maquisard sleeping in front of them, and Jim apologised softly as the woman grunted. 

Sitting upright, he coaxed his still sleeping lover to rest against him, stroking his fingers through the long curls as Blair  rested his head in his lap, snoring slightly.  A flash of movement caught his eye and he looked up, relaxing a little at the sight of the little arachnid on the wall. 

Jim watched the spider creep up the rock wall above his lover's body. Delicate paper-thin legs extended, tentatively feeling out and gripping the surface, then contracted again, pulling the long body upwards. It moved with an odd sort of grace, each slow movement captivating him. He watched entranced as it delicately skirted a little trickle of moisture, gripping onto a miniscule outcropping before overcoming the obstacle and continuing upwards. 

There was a muffled little grunt from the man snoozing in his lap, then Blair shifted upwards, groggily wiping his face. "Jim?" he instinctively searched for his lover 

Ellison gently patted his cheek, then gestured behind the Maquisard. "Careful, Chief." 

"Huh?" Blair peered over his shoulder, then jumped as the spider crawled up at nose-height. "Yeeegh!" He picked up a rock to smack at the crawly, but Jim caught his hand. 

"Look," he said softly. 

Blair followed his gaze upwards, to a gossamer-thin web spreading out, covering the juncture between the wall and roof of the cave. Hundreds of tiny little bodies crawled around the pinwheel structure, their legs making the web shimmer in the dim light. Baby spiders. 

With a little smile, Blair gently puffed a stream of air at the large spider, making it scurry upwards into the haven of its home. It fussed around the edges of its web, carefully stepping around the tiny industrious bodies. 

Jim had been horribly glad of the silence from the town. Ex-town. It probably didn't even exist any more. Apparent silence gripped the night, but when he listened he could hear the shifting sounds of fabric and skin against rock, the occasional snore from the Maquis in the cave, and further out, the same sounds from the German soldiers. Funny how they all sounded the same in sleep. 

The silence from the town clawed at the Leftenant now as he watched those diminutive lives in the web above him, guilt and sorrow washing over him in waves. How many people had been in Vassieux? How many of them were murdered? How many were hiding, like they were, waiting for death to come and steal them away? 

Sensing his distress, Blair squeezed his lover reassuringly, wrapping his arms around the larger man as best he could, tucking the dark-haired head under his chin as his fingers trailed soothingly up and down the strong back. Jim returned the embrace, his head directly over the steadily beating heart of the smaller man, letting the rhythm soothe him a little. 

After a long while, Blair gave him another squeeze, then got to his feet. Stepping carefully around the reclining bodies and rock-littered floor, he made his way to where Megan sat beside the wounded. Fourteen, fifteen of them had been injured during the battle or the mad flight, broken bones and gunshot wounds.  Seven had died already, bodies stacked to one side to make room for the living, pale hands dangling limply onto the cold floor.  With a sad look on her face, Megan carefully tugged a tattered shirt to cover the face of the last, a seventeen year old boy who had finally succumbed to the cold and his wounds.  She looked up as Blair sat beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder.  She touched the hand once, with a watery little smile, then scrubbed the tears from her face and moved back to the rest. 

Blair reached down to brush a lock of hair back from Serena’s face. "Bonjour," he said softly as her brown eyes opened dully. "How do you feel?" 

She smiled weakly and tapped the blood soaked bandages covering her side. "I have been better," she joked.  Carefully she moistened her lips. "Water?" 

"Here,"  Megan tenderly lifted the woman’s head and neck, pressing a canteen to her lips.  Serena drank gratefully, then let her head fall back. "Thank you," she whispered before her eyes slid closed again, pain and exhaustion dragging at her mind.  Reaching out, she fumbled her hand to touch Blair’s.  "Thank you." 

"Shh." Blair rubbed her hand gently. "Sleep. Rest. We’ll be leaving here soon, and I expect a full meal in payment." 

With a little chuckle, Serena slipped into sleep, a small smile on her lips. 

Blair kept up his own smile until he was sure the woman was asleep, then it melted off his face, sliding like butter in a pan. "How is she?" 

Megan shook her head once, in reply. 

Tears prickling his eyes, Blair made the woman more comfortable on the floor, then moved to help Megan with the others. 

The day dragged on into night, then back into day, and they were still trapped.  Starved stomachs no longer rumbled, used to long periods without food.  The thirst was the worst, dry, parched mouths working convulsively in a futile attempt to work up saliva, clothing pressed to damp walls and sucked eagerly of the pitiful moisture. 

Hands itching for something to do, Blair helped Megan, wiping gathering sweat from trembling, pain-filled bodies, soothing fevered dreams with a gentle hand, every so often looking up, towards the mouth of the cave where Jim stood lookout, exchanging encouraging smiles, grasping the small hope their continued existence offered. 

Wiping the back of a trembling hand across his forehead, Blair ushered Megan to a less-uncomfortable spot in the rocks.  As the only trained medic they had, the nurse was overworked, exhaustion heavily lining her once-pretty face, making her look old and haggard. 

As soon as she was asleep, Blair gratefully handed his role over to Rafe and Joel.  Straightening, he cast a weary gaze around the cave and tottered over to where a young man sat alone, pressed deep against a moss-covered wall. 

"Do you mind if I sit here?"  The young man looked up and shook his head, and Blair saw he wasn’t a man after all, only a boy, barely old enough to hold a gun. 

Gratefully he sank to the ground, tilting his head back and resting it against the cool surface.  The boy next to him shivered, and Blair opened his eyes again, pushing his exhaustion aside.  Something about the boy was familiar somehow.  "I know you...yes?"  he furrowed his brow, trying to think "From the Academy. You’re.." 

"Alec Winters," the boy managed through chattering teeth.  A brief smile appeared, a brief flash of teeth, then it was gone. 

"Alec." Blair treated the boy to a warm, genuine smile. Now he remembered. A childhood prodigy, his arrival had been all the news at the Academy. Blair had even tutored him once, back in a time before the madness. "Small world, isn’t it?"  Alec shivered again and Blair drew him gently to his side, shrugging one arm out of his jacket and tugging it over the boy so that they were sharing the little warmth it had to offer. 

Alec gratefully nestled into the comfort. "Not so small. When the war broke out, my family, they sent me back home." He looked up for a moment, and the boy was gone, leaving behind the old, old eyes of a man who has seen too much. "They’re dead now, aren’t they?" 

Blair wished he had an answer. 

* * *

Jim relinquished his watch to Brown, handing over the pitifully loaded weapon to the Maquisard. Shifting further into the cave, he stretched as best as he could. There was nothing left now but the waiting game. Watching the Germans watching them watching the Germans watching them... he shook his head as the thoughts made him dizzy and headed over to his lover, stopping as something brushed past his cheek. Air. Not from the entrance but from... 

"Simon," he beckoned the Captain over. "Can you feel that?" 

Simon wrinkled his brow in confusion, then the little puff of air came again and his face cleared, lighting up with an almost-joy. "Air. There \- another entrance. He corrected himself, a broad grin breaking over his face at the implication. "Exit." 

Jim tilted his head left, then right, then left again, focusing. "There." He pointed to the dark recesses of the cave. 

"There’s a crack back there. A fissure," Alec volunteered. "I - I used to play there, as a child." 

Jim’s face tightened in fury. "Why the HELL didn’t you say anything before?!" he bellowed.  The boy shrank back in fear, pressing himself into the cave wall, behind the shelter of Blair’s body, anything to protect him from that terrible wrath. 

Blair hugged him close to his side, extending one hand to stay his lover. "Alec?" he was careful to keep his voice low and soothing, all too aware of the terrified tremors shaking the too-thin, gangly frame.  "Alec, I know you’re scared, but do you remember where it leads?  Alec?" 

Coaxed into courage by Blair’s gentleness, the boy nodded. "Outside. You will fit, but I-I do not know about the others." His voice cracked with stress, the thick accent making his stilted English hard to understand. 

 Blair hugged him a little closer. "Good, that’s great, Alec," he encouraged. "You saved us!" 

With a tender smile at his lover, Jim moved to one side to confer with Simon and Brackett, an arrogant American who was somehow the leader of another Reseau.  "Are we going for it?" 

Brackett shook his head. "No. You heard the kid - there’s no way most of us can fit. We should wait it out. It’s already been a day and a half \- the German’s are gonna give up before too long. We just need to stay here and stick it out." 

"With _what?_ "  Simon rounded on the smaller man angrily.  "We have _no_ food. One canteen of water, _one_ between thirty people. A handful of weapons with even less ammunition.  Eight of us have died already - what then?  Do we roll their bodies out at the Germans? Do we keep doing that as we die until those that are left are too weak? _Then_ what?"  The man had no answer and Simon turned to the others. "I say we try it. The woman and young ones first \- they have  better chance of fitting.  At least _some_ of us can make it out alive." To Blair: "Sandburg; go help Megan. See who can be moved and who can’t. If they can’t, - try anyway. I’m not leaving anyone behind that I don’t have to. Jim," he turned his gaze on the Leftenant as Blair nodded and hurried over to the nurse. "Give me a hand here. See if we can widen this hole a little." 

Jim nodded and started tugging, pulling away tiny handfuls of crumbling rock. 

* * *

Concluded in part three.


	3. Chapter 3

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

## Nom De Guerre

By Taleya

Author's homepage: <http://www.fortunecity.com/lavendar/brett/283/index.html>

Author's notes and disclaimer can be found in part one. 

* * *

Nom De Guerre - part three  
By Taleya

Blair crouched down next to Megan and Serena, putting a hand on the nurses shoulder. "Hello lovely ladies," he said in his best British accent, twirled an imaginary mustache, the fatigue and thirst dropping away. "And how are we this fine day?" 

Serena chuckled, the motion turning into a dark, whooping cough that jarred her injured body, sending her gasping for air.  Under Megan’s direction, Blair helped the nurse lift the gypsy upright, gently rubbing circles on her back.  Serena doubled forward, eyes glazed and resigned to fate as she hacked, finally trembling into stillness.  A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, air wheezing in and out of her lungs as they laid her back down. 

She reached up with a surprisingly string grip, almost crushing Blair’s hand as Megan fussed with her dressings.  Finally lids drooped low, almost closed, but not quite, those half-crescents the most horrific thing Blair had ever seen as her grip loosened. 

"Sandy-" he looked up into Megan’s eyes, mouth still open. All the answers he had never wanted were there in her eyes.  "Sandy, what is it?" 

"A-a way out.." he dropped his gaze back to Serena, trying to reconcile the withered, almost-corpse with the cheeky, vibrant woman he knew and loved. "They found a way out. A fissure, through the back." His hand stroked over Serena’s hair. "We can leave," he whispered. 

* * *

They news spread quickly in the cramped space, tired faces lighting with hope and eager hands tugging at the rock.  When they had a space big enough, Simon began directing the others out, watching as they silently made bodies that seemed too big fit into a crack that seemed too small, grabbing the offer of escape with both hands and both feet. Helping the wounded, leaving behind the smelly prison with glad hearts. 

Brown and Joel helped the last few out as Simon walked over to where the others were, crouched around Serena. The gypsy gently brushed aside their attempts at help, settling herself back on the floor.  Two others had chosen the same option. 

With time and proper medical care, she might have recovered. But they had neither.  And it was her  choice, her decision. Simon closed his eyes, the weight of command suddenly landing on his shoulders, making him stooped like an old man.  There was only one choice. One ending.  But at least he could make it easier. 

Kneeling beside the wounded Maquisard, he tugged his gun out of his waist band.  "There’s five rounds left," he whispered.  Serena nodded in understanding. 

 Megan leaned down and gave the dying woman a long, soft kiss. "Goodbye.." she choked on the word and turned into the comfort of Rafe's embrace. 

"No...Serena..." Blair whispered in a little sob. 

She kissed his cheek, then took the pistol in her long hands. "Go," she whispered, settling back, holding the weapon to her chest in a comfort. "Go with him, Jim, make a long life," she stroked the barrel of the gun, then raised it. "Go.." 

"Serena..." A long arm snaked around his waist and pulled at him. "Serena, NO!" he screamed, bucking and fighting against the restraining hold as Jim hauled him away. "SERENA!" His hands beat against the walls of the fissure as Jim dragged him along, voice tearing out in a scream. " _SERENA!_ " 

Another burst of gunfire chattered across the hills, then a lone, single shot. 

From _inside_ the cave. 

Tears running down his face, Blair ran. Head down, clinging to his lover's hand, running where Jim directed, not caring. 

Somehow his hand was broken from Jim’s and he stumbled into Alec, gripping onto the smaller body and they clung together, legs tripping across the ground, almost to the point of falling, except they didn't fall, they couldn't, running faster and faster into the safety of the cool night air. 

* * *

Leaning against a tree, grateful for the support as he gasped for breath, head down, Jim took stock of who was left. Himself, Megan, Brown and Rafe. A even more pitiful handful than had been in the cave. Somehow they had lost the others, splitting into disparate groups, vanishing into the darkness. Triage tactics. That way, if any of them were caught it would be a small handful, not the entire group. But they were divide now, split, he had no idea where the others were. Blair was all right though, he knew, deep in his heart. Blair was all right. He had to be. 

Across the clearing, Megan collapsed, legs splayed like some broken marionette, hands coming up to clutch at her face. "Oh my god," she moaned, sobbing. "Serena...oh my god.." 

Jim crawled over to her, forcing tired and stiff muscles to work, wrapping her in his arms and holding her, keeping the darkness at bay, for a little while. "Shh, shh," he soothed softly, his own tears running unnoticed down his face as Megan burrowed into his body. "Let it out Megan, let it out, shh, shh..." He wept with her, wept for the loss of a friend, but a part of his brain kept yammering at him for wasting time, he had to get up, they had to keep moving. 

Where was Blair? 

* * *

Blair ran. His jacket flopped loose around him, hanging from his arms and he flung it off as they pelted across a dirt road, leaving there, unnoticed and unmissed as they head into the little clearing across the road. He stumbled to a stop against a tree, finally releasing his death grip on Alec’s arms resting his forearm against the bark and his forehead against his arm, panting, dragging in lungful after lungful of air that burned his throat and tasted like honey. 

Turning, he rested his back against the tree, sliding down it, unmindful of the bark that shredded his shirt, eyes closing and opening in time to his pants, like an automaton. There were only four of them now; Simon Joel, Alec and himself. They boy was crumpled on the ground, nerves pushed too far and on the edge of snapping, tears spreading helplessly down his terrified face. Jim. Where was Jim? 

He shoved himself to his feet, whole body shaking violently with fatigue, taking a few hesitant steps forward, only to stop as the roar of a truck cut the still night air. Simon and Joel ducked behind large boulders standing in the grass like Sentinels, melting away like wraiths. Alec stared at the approaching lights, frightened beyond all thought, trapped in a paralysis born of total, soul-destroying horror. 

"Alec!" Blair lunched forward and snatched the boy up, stuffing him into a tiny crevice between the rocks. "Alec, hide. Stay here. Don’t come out until we say so," and then he was running again, scampering up into the leafy protection of a nearby tree. 

The truck drove up the road at the end of the clearing, slowing and stopping and Blair cursed as he saw his jacket caught in the twin beams of the headlights. How could he have been so stupid? 

A door opened, then polished Black boot pounded the road. SS. He felt a moan of terror rising up from deep within and crushed it mercilessly. 

The soldier picked up his jacket carefully, then examined it, jogging back to the truck and talking excitedly to the others in German. Blair closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. _Go, **please.**_

Hope flared and died as more doors opened, more soldiers climbing from the truck. Three of them, plus an officer. All fresh and well fed and armed. Their only chance was to wait, hide, their dreams of fighting back for the freedom of France falling before the practicality of continued existence. What was the use was fighting if it left you dead? 

The nazis spread out, weapons at the ready and his heart stopped in pure fear as the officer stopped blow him, under the tree. He didn’t dare move, for fear the rustling of the leaves gave him away. If the man looked up... 

A single drop of sweat trailed down his face, dropping off the end of his nose to land on top of the stiff black cap and his heart stopped, eyes wide as he watched the man reach one hand up, turning his face... 

A soldier crossed near the crevice where Alec was hiding and the boy’s already strained and frayed nerves snapped. As soon as the soldier’s back was turn he bolted out, running blindly, straight into the arms of the officer. 

With an incredibly evil purr, the man tilted the wide-eyed, terrified face upwards. Alec looked up into an oddly tender smile and flat eyes that promised death and a thin scream broke from his throat as he came face to face with the evil that had done nothing but murder over nearly five years. 

"No! PLEASE!" The frightened cry snapped Blair’s control, and all he saw was a frightened boy, in a forest, in a ghetto, in a death camp, crying out in a terrified plea against something he didn’t understand. The faces were different, but the words were always the same. The words that woke him screaming at night. " _PLEASE!_ " 

Not this time. Not now. Not ever again. 

With a despairing scream, Blair launched himself from the safety of the tree, landing on the SS officer holding the boy and clinging to his back as they fell to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Alec wiggled and squirmed away, running into the trees around them. Simon and Joel came out of hiding, guns blazing the night. 

Blair was oblivious to it, the rattle forming a hellish accompanyment as he slammed the officer’s head into the ground again and again, punching, kicking, snarling like an animal. If he had a knife, he would have used it to slit the other man’s throat like a pig. "Not this time, you bastard," he snarled. "NOT THIS TIME!" 

" **SANDBUR-** " Simon’s shout was cut off as a bullet ripped through his leg, sending him spinning and crumbling to the ground. He saw Joel fall silently, hands limply dropping the gun, illuminated by the flash as his finger tightened briefly on the trigger before relaxing. Then he was clawing his way back up the rock he had use as shelter, sweat-soaked hands slipping on the stone, nails breaking away as he dug clawed fingers into the jagged surface. 

He saw two of Hitler’s brave, strong, elite soldiers off the SS drag a lone, half-starved anthropologist off the officer, holding him in place while a third punched him viciously in the gut, the motion highlighted by the glaring headlights of the truck. 

Blair doubled over with the force of the blow, then his head raised again, pure murder in his eyes as he lashed out savagely with both feet, slamming them into the soldier. The officer fell backwards under the impact of the blow, and Blair turned in the grip of the other two, biting the hands that held him, kicking, using every inch of his body as a weapon. 

The soldier on the ground clambered back to his feet and delivered a crushing blow to the fine-boned face, smashing lips against teeth, a fine spray of blood flowing outwards from the motion. 

Stunned, Blair hung limp for a moment in the soldier’s grasp as the third checked the officer on the ground. Straightening up from the crumpled body, his face hardened in fury as Simon reached with agonised slowness for his gun, delivering another vicious blow to the Maquisard’s stomach 

Simon forced his fingers to reach further, slipping a little, losing his grasp as his arm crept along the ground. His hand encountered still warm flesh, slightly clammy from the cool night air. Too big for an animal, it had to be Joel. Fumbling up the still body, he whispered an urgent entreaty, calling for the older man to get up, get moving. Then his questing hand brushed against the right side of Taggert's head, damp and spattered with what felt like squishy mud. The bloody mess where the left side used to be. 

Swallowing his sorrow down as far as it went, he forced his hand to crawl across the still body, finally grasping Joel’s weapon. 

The pain from the blow seemed to have revived Blair’s battered spirit and he raised his head, spitting on the hated uniform, fighting the hands that held him. But the struggles were weaker now, little more than a token protest that had no real hope for escape as he was dragged toward the waiting truck. 

Grasping the gun in both hands, Simon raised it, resting it on the edge of the rock so that his aim wouldn’t be spoiled by the tears sheeting down his face, the trembling in his body as he focused on the struggling figure between the black uniforms. With a dead soul, he thumbed back the hammer, finger twitching on the trigger. It was up to him. He was the only one who could save Blair. Give him a quick, merciful death with a single shot, instead of a messy, screaming, painful one in an interrogation room. 

One shot. That was all he had left. 

He focused with startling clarity on the smaller man, and somehow Blair knew, he stopped fighting, standing still in the middle of the clearing, a perfect shot for a man used to shooting moving targets. 

One shot. 

Simon waited, drawing a bead, waiting until the shot _felt_ right, knowing he couldn't miss. It was the least he could do for a friend. 

One shot. 

Closing his eyes and murmuring a prayer, Simon pulled the trigger. 

* * *

The gun jammed. 

Simon threw the useless pile of metal onto the ground and wept as the truck drove away, the wheels bumping along the rough ground. He had failed. Because of one stupid motherfucking _useless_ round, he had lost the only chance Blair would ever have at peace for the rest of his life. 

Because from now on, all Blair would know would be agony and torment, throat torn raw from screaming as they slowly and methodically took him apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing but death. And he would die, Simon knew that. Blair would die without telling them a single thing, somehow he had faith that a gentle, pacifist child forced into this war would endure what had broken even the most hardened fighters without a single secret escaping his lips. 

Simon sat down suddenly as blood loss swayed his world. He landed half-on, half off a rock, sliding to the ground, watching detachedly as his life ebbed away in red rivers. Almost absently, his hands came up to clench over the wound, ignoring the pain, welcoming it as punishment for his crime. 

* * *

Jim lead his little party through the forest. They had gained one more, a thin, sallow faced woman named Cassie. Jim supposed she might have been attractive, once. Might have. But now her hair was matted and snarled, her face and clothing heavy with dirt, eyes a little too bright for sane men. But she was carrying a battered old valaise. The kind they dropped to British soldiers. The kind that held a wireless. A working wireless, one that she had repaired. And that made her invaluable. 

The Lefteneant held up his hand for silence as something teased the edges of his ears. Crashing noises, leaves crackling, branches snapping under someones weight. 

"Someone’s coming." 

Brown cocked his head, then shook it. "I don’t - " then they did, melting away into shelter as the desperate crashing came closer. 

Jim frowned in puzzlement as a harsh panting joined the noise, little whimpers and half-babbled prayers. It didn’t sound like a nazi. It sounded like someone young and half-crazed with terror, fleeing for his life. 

It sounded like... 

Jim stepped out of cover and caught the wildly careening figure as it slammed into him, holding it out at arms length, heart tripping and hammering as he barely recognised the wild eyes as belonging to Alec. The young boy struggled briefly against him, panic blinding his eyes to everything, until Jim’s soft voice finally broke through and he locked frantic eyes on the tall Leftenant. 

"Help them...you’ve got to...nazis... _Blair!_ " he trembled with fatigue and pure, simple, gut-wrenching terror, body shaking so hard he would have fallen if not for Jim’s grip. 

"Where?" Jim demanded, hand tightening to painful proportions on the young man’s arms. He vaguely registered the pained cry and feeble squirming, but his mind was twisting and turning, stomach knotting with fear " _Where?_ " 

"Jim!" hands were tugging at his now, loosening his hold. Alec was clinging to Cassie, weeping. "Jim, you gotta keep it together, man. Just keep it together." Brown was paying no attention to his own advice, his own voice rising, taking on a panicked timbre. "What do we do?" he gave the Leftenant a shake. " _What do we do?_ " 

Jim shook off the hands. Took the valaise from Cassie. Handed her a gun. "You. Take Alec...away. Find somewhere." Then he turned and stepped through the broken trail the teenager had left behind. 

For a long moment, there was dead silence. Then he felt the others behind, their breaths quick and light and so familiar he could have named them in his sleep. Brown. Rafe. Megan. He heard them close in, following him blindly like he was some kind of all seeing hero, superman, not some half-crazed man, so afraid for his lover, a tin shit waving a sword and charging stupidly into the fray. 

Fear scrabbling deep inside, a growing sense of dread, he increased the pace, picking the trail up easily through the dark, tight-woven canopy of trees, a broken twig here, scuffled leaves, hearing the other behind him cursing and tripping over the roots and stones he avoided so easily. He gritted his teeth in irritaton: they didn’t have time for this, no time for the stupid everyday happenings, he had to go, he had to _be_ there, something was happening, something terrible and he moved faster and faster until he was running, the clues flashing by quickly in his eager eyes, left, right, twisting and turning, not even registering the others, not even caring until he burst into a little clearing by the side of a road. 

And stopped. 

* * *

Blair was trapped in a nightmare. 

Each jostle and bump of the trucks suspension on the pocked and battle-scarred road tore at his aching ribs, turning his breathing into quick shudders as he clung desperately to the seat. Each time he fell, hard boots pounded his flesh, making him cry out, make him hate himself, hate the weakness he was showing in front of the people who had attempted to murder him, his people, his entire fucking _race._

The truck rolled into a compound and stopped. Taking the distraction, Blair made a hopeless lunge for freedom. A laughing soldier stuck the stock of his gun between his ankles, making him trip, sending him staggering into the tailgate and over, landing in the dirt outside. He pushed himself up on his hands and knees, fighting to see past the blood and hair in his eyes and started to crawl forward, determined to die, to make them shoot him in a laughingly insane attempt for escape. A hand entangled in his hair, hauling him upright, hands slapped at his face, pushed him, bullied him as the soldiers frogmarched him towards a building. His eyes were almost blind, catching brief flashes of the buildings surrounding him, the black uniforms, the dirt again as he tripped and fell. 

He was roughly yanked up again, brutal hands uncaring of his injuries, voices shouting conflicting orders, bouncing off the stone walls. always pushing, shoving, until he was through a door and landed on a soft carpet. He closed his eyes and prayed for death. 

Two gestapo officers hauled him to his feet again. 

"Well, well, well." 

Blair's blood ran cold, ice forming in his veins as he recognised the thin, sharp, cruel black-clothed officer, the dark uniform wrapping around him like the web of a malevolent spider. 

Keltenbrunner. 

_Mon dieu._ he sent up a prayer to a god he should have stopped believing in but never had, his faith all too often what he had left to cling to. _Not him, please!_ He knew this man. ‘Biblically’ as they were wont to say. Back in a life he thought he had left far behind, one that had tarred him and marked him and branded him with a shame so deep it could never be erased. Back when he was the mincing, prancing lapdog of a certain nazi general. 

"I remember you..." that voice, like the purr of a giant cat, those eyes, two chillingly set unyielding emeralds. "My little plaything. I was _very_ pleased General Von Kessel shared _you._ " He reached out with a leather clad hand, smoothing his palm over Blair's cheek, his touch an obscene parody of a lover's caress. "He was a fool to let you go. But then Von Kessel always was a fool, even for a General. Throwing away a pretty piece like you because of a little flaw..." He stroked the tips of his gloved fingers across Blair's scar, and the Maquisard had to resist the urge to bite down hard on the thumb resting on his lip. 

Then he got his priorities in order, and realised in a brilliant flash of clarity that he was no-ones whore any more, he had no one to protect, nothing held over him, nothing to lose except his life, which was forfeit anyway - and he lunged forward and chomped on the offending digit. 

Instead of the expected yowl of pain and blows, Keltenbrunner threw his head back, an exquisite hiss oozing over the thin lips. "Aaah...." he brought his other hand up to tangle in Blair's dark curls as he unhurriedly reclaimed his hand. "Little plaything still has fight, I see. Tell me, little one, what did you do after Von Kessel threw you away?" 

"I fought. " Blair returned, voice rock steady as he looked death in the eye and embraced it. "I fought you murderers. You laches. I fought and I killed." Only on the last word did his voice break, eyes lowering and his soul weeping as he remembered that lone, injured soldier on the road to Vassieux. 

A gloved hand clenched at his jaw, wrenching his head back up, fingers digging in cruelly, leaving white, blood-starved imprints on his flesh that quickly filled to livid red bruises. "A Jew, to a whore, to a fighter." Keltenbrunner compartmentalised his life, cheapened it in eight short words. "Big steps, little plaything. And do you know what you are now?" he whispered in Blair's ear, a voice like honey. "Nothing. Your friends aren't here, little plaything, they won't come. To them, you are dead already. They know they can't save you, so you are nothing to them now. A dead corpse." He circled the smaller man as he spoke, and Blair recognised the fear tactic, refused to give in to it, staring straight ahead at the wall, noticing odd little cracks in the mortar, as if the screams of a thousand prisoners had finally made their way into the unforgiving stone... 

The sharp pain in his thigh was at once expected, and unexpected. He crumpled under the initial invasion, feeling his muscles twitch and twist oddly around the _thing_ invading them, hampering them, and a pain-filled gasp escaped his lips despite himself, before he recovered long enough to delve into the pain, not absorbing it, _becoming_ it, learning to relish it, knowing it was only a small taste of what was to come. 

A cramping, burning agony tore its way through his entire leg in an aftershock and he staggered under the force of it, would have fallen if not for the two gestapo guards holding him upright. 

Keltenbrunner stepped in front of Blair, holding up a needle, as if for inspection, its gleaming metal tip stained with his blood and dripping a little yellow fluid from the tip. "Do you like my little present?" he asked, turning the expended syringe one way then the other, stroking his fingers over the smooth glass surface. "I have so many more toys to play with, my little plaything, and I promise you, that you will get to know them all before I am done." 

The pain faded, and Blair worked up enough saliva in his mouth to spit it at the German, his broken mouth grinning a little in satisfaction as it dribbled down his nice, shiny uniform. "I am _not_ your plaything. " He said it low and soft, every ounce of his soul in the words. "I am never yours. I never was." 

The German's face finally cracked, twisting in fury. "You will be, little plaything. " He clenched a thin shoulder in his hand, fingers digging in, seeking out sensitive nerve bundles and crushing them. "You will beg and scream to be mine. " 

_Jim's._ Blair held onto that thought as his body howled in pain, panting a little, tears running down his face as the agony eased. He was Jim's. No matter who they were, what they did, they couldn't take that away from him. The nazis had taken his family. The fat bald monocled General, looking so ridiculous he was almost a caricature of himself, had taken his virginity, plunged into him, torn his aching hole open, made him bleed and scream and beg, but Blair had only ever _given_ himself to one man. 

James Ellison. 

He took comfort in that fact, retreating into himself as the iron grip on his arm trailed down his body, becoming possessive, opening his pants and roughly fondling his penis in an obscene caress. Others could touch, stroke, take - but only one man would have the entire package, mind, body, soul. Others could take an empty shell, the whore, but only one man would be _given_ a tender, participating _lover._

_Jim._ He let the beloved face fill his mind's eye one more time, trying with all his soul to send a mental call, a shout, all his love and joy from his heart to the other man, knowing he couldn't hear it, finding comfort in even that small fact because it meant Jim was somewhere far away and _safe._

The hand on his testicles abruptly drew away, realising it could never have what it sought. Blair's head rocked to one side with the cold snap of a blow, and he closed his eyes, surrendering to the inevitable as the guards took him by the arms and dragged him away, shackling him to a cold, impersonal metal bench, tilted like an operating table, the bright lights above him hurting his eyes, burning into his brain as they tore away his clothing. 

_I'm sorry Jim,_ he whispered it in his mind only, shuddering a little as his legs were roughly parted, cold metal holding his ankles as they chained him into birthing stirrups, his back arched, hips tilted, arms spread cruciform like a sacrificial offering. _I love you..._

He dimly saw dark shapes moving beyond his circle of light, heard the squeak and clatter of implements on trays being wheeled closer, felt someone between his legs, at his side, behind the table, holding his head. The form at his groin began to move, something sharp pierced his side, just below his ribs, and then he could only scream as the pain began, rising higher and higher, managing one last coherent thought before it set his whole body on fire and he plunged headlong into the madness. 

_My life for yours, my love_

* * *

Jim's face was devoid of all colour, eyes two black, despairing pools. He stared endlessly into nowhere, seeing nothing as Megan stitched up the hole in Simon's leg, winding a bandage over the wound. 

With Joel dead and Simon gone, the nazis had cut their losses and left with what they had. 

"Blair." He moaned the name out loud, feeling his soul tear in two, feeling as if a heavy knife had torn his stomach open, entrails raw and exposed, only holding himself together by the most delicate of touches, one push and there would be nothing left. 

They were in a little town somewhere, he didn't know, didn't care, his body was the only thing really present, heart and soul dying, screaming, crying with his lover in a cold, cold cell somewhere. 

"I have to find him." The words slipped almost silently out of a throat tight with pain. He had to find Blair. Find him, he had to... 

"I'm coming with you." Simon struggled to sit up, swinging his good leg to the floor. 

Megan pushed him back down. "You can't Simon," 

"Dammit, I'm not leaving him to those bastards!" 

"If you go, you'll slow them down." There was no trace of emotion in her voice as she re-tightened the bandage on his leg. "And it could be that time lag that kills Blair." Harsh words, but no harsher than the reality they lived with every day. 

"Jim." Simon reached out, his hand clawing around the other man's arm. "You get Blair out of there. Or if you can't - kill him. You hear me?" His fingers dug into the other man's like claws. "Not for us, he won't tell them anything, but for _him_ you hear me? for _him_ " He shook Jim fiercely. "Promise me. PROMISE!" 

Jim nodded his head dully, his soul trapped elsewhere, body jerking like a dancing marionette. Making the moves, going through the motions, not really in charge, just a puppet. 

And the reality of what he was saying, what he was promising burned through him and the nod turned into a shake, the movement so vicious it jolted his tenous hold on reality. " _No._ " He wouldn’t kill Bair. Couldn’t wouldn’t would NEVER.... 

Because he was going to bring him back alive. He hadn’t spent this long in torment, waiting, to give up at the first hurdle. He was going to bring Blair back alive. 

He had to. 

* * *

Dark forms were blotting the lights above him. Blair squinted, then blinked as they came into focus. Faces, mouths moving, sounds blasting at him from the open holes. Words, he remembered fuzzily, sounds became words. Languages. Words had meaning. Words were important. Once he could form them himself, imitate the soft flowing syllables, talk. Back when he was himself, back when he had a name, a body, an existence. Back before _IT_ happened, the horrible something that snatched his world and twisted it around, robbing him of speech, leaving only pain, leaving only howling, choking animal sounds in its wake. 

"What is your name? What is your group? How many in your group? Where are they? What are your plans? Weapons? The Americans, the English, what will they do?" They snapped back and forth, a machine gun rattle, never ending, never allowing him to speak, even if he thought he could form the words. 

Something burned the tender flesh on the inside of his arm, making him howl and scream, trying spasmodically to convulse away from the pain, the harsh metal cuffs at his wrists and ankles holding him immobile, cutting deeper into already bruised and bleeding flesh. 

Words were power, he remembered reading that somewhere...was it him? Someone somewhere had read those words, a light-speckled library, watching each mote of dust turned golden by the warm sun before it drifted from the light. Someone had seen those, someone had watched the dust in a time before the pain...was there a time before the pain? It didn't matter. Words were power, words were comfort, accompanied by tender caresses and loving kisses. 

The noises started again and his brow creased in confusion. These weren't the loving words he was used to, these were harsh shouted questions and demands, not the soothing promises he was used to receiving from J- 

He couldn't say the name. Not even in his mind. If he did, they would hear, they would know because they had the _words,_ the _power_ of words, not him, he couldn't... 

...but if he could, then maybe, if he had the words, if he had the power, they couldn't tell. They couldn't know, and maybe he could say that name in his mind, see that face in his heart. He tried desperately to moisten terribly parched lips, moved his mouth, but nothing came out of his dry, cracked throat. 

"Wasser!" another word, more power. If he only knew what they meant. If only he wasn't so tired... 

Blair felt something cool at his lips and gulped greedily, feeling the liquid flow down his throat, cooling, soothing. He mewled weakly as it was taken away, fingers twitching uselessly inside the cuffs as he strained to bring it back. 

The water roiled and spasmed in his abused stomach, forcing its way up his throat and back out his mouth, bringing the meagre contents of his stomach up with it, and he gagged, desperately trying to force cramped and tired muscles to work. He finally lifted his head a little, and felt the bile coat his chin and neck, small spatters landing on the top of his chest. He wept in frustration, his throat drier than ever as he heard the noises above him again. 

Something ice-cold dashed across his body, washing the vomit away before it and he lapped desperately as it crossed his lips, trying to suck some of it in, ignoring the shivers the coldness brought in the chilly room. He had to make the words now, the words had power, the power to make it stop, make it all stop, grant him dissolution, peace, grant him nothingness. All he had to do was say them. He opened his mouth to stop the pain, determined now, and that face flashed before him like a bolt of lightening. 

And he knew who he was. 

And he knew where he was. 

And he knew what he was going to say. 

"I -I..." the words were halting and weak, each syllable requiring a mountain of effort, but they were there, he could say them now. "I don't kn-know anyth-thing..." 

And it was like an epiphany. Blair realised he had the POWER now, he had the WORDS, and they couldn't take that away from him and he laughed, the sound spiralling higher and higher, sounding crazed and insane to his own ears, and he knew he was mad, but that was ok, madmen tell no truths, that was more WORDS he knew. 

"I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING YOU BASTARDS!!" And he kept laughing and laughing, the joyful sounds turning into choked sobs as they unchained his feet, letting his legs drop heavily to the cold table, sensation returning to the cold white flesh, cramping, terrible agonising pain, then his hands were free and they were dragging him away, chaining him again, more metal biting into his abused flesh. He felt himself being lifted higher and higher, his arms protesting, but still he couldn't stop laughing. He laughed at the Germans, he laughed at their stupid uniforms, he laughed at their pathetic plans for world domination because he could SEE now, he was up high, he could see everything, they were wrong all wrong, it was all for NOTHING they were going to lose, it was going to happen, he could see it... 

He was still laughing when the first blow struck. 

* * *

Jim packed carefully, methodically, hands rock steady. Water. Gun. Ammunition. Some food, just in case. 

Megan stopped beside him, then hand him the battered valaise he had taken from Cassie. Another loss, another dead. They had found her body crumpled and twisted by the side of the road, guts torn open, eyes staring and mouth twisted around a final scream in a grim reminder of the agony she had died in. And Alec. A single shot to the head. 

Jim took the case, gently, reverently, barely registering it when Megan pressed a slim hand to his shoulder in comfort. He slipped the precious item into his battered pack, checked his beretta, slipped it into his waistband and shouldered the pack. Each movement smooth, economical, no sign of the interior struggle, the fact that deep inside he wanted to run and hide, stripped of all defenses, naked as a newborn baby. 

A shadow stepped over him, then two dark hands were spreading a map out in front of his dull, sightless eyes. "They’ve probably taken him here." Brown circled an area with a dirty nail. "They’ve got a garrison, they wouldn’t want to wait too long until they could-" he choke on the words, unnecessarily. Jim already knew what they would do, could do, _were_ doing. It was a sickness, inbred, stamped into young, fresh faced soldiers from the moment they enlisted into the SS. As deep as the tattoo under the arm marking their blood type, their _special status_ over normal soldiers, growing deeper and deeper, spreading the sickness until they were more likely to be aroused by whipping a naked woman rather than the thought of making love to her. Whips, electrodes, presses that crushed tender skin into mangled clumps of flesh, all of those horrible little party favours would be brought into play until they had what they wanted. And after. 

"Lets go." Jim looked up and saw that Brown and Rafe were decked out, ready to follow him. To their deaths maybe. It shouldn’t be like that. It was his fault, he had let them be seperated, it was his duty to rescue his lover, his death a penance for his own utter stupidity. He couldn’t wear any more blood on his hands, couldn’t face the chance of more deaths on his soul. 

"Stay here." Even to his own ears his voice was flat, dead. Like he was, deep inside. 

Turning, he headed off, to where the map indicated, to his death. 

Or a chance at renewal. He didn’t know. 

Brown and Rafe followed him, and he remained silent, feeling Megan’s eyes bore into his back, her whispered prayer as they disappeared from sight. 

* * *

"I don't know anything. "   
  
It went from a mad shriek, a shouted denial screamed in a vocalisation of agony against the broken bones and bruised flesh, to a shattered whisper, to a breathless gasp, using up precious oxygen snatched into starved lungs as they pulled him from the cracked ice. 

"I don't know anything..." 

And finally they realised, that was all they were going to get. After the torture. After the rapes. After everything they had done, they discovered that somewhere in the seemingly frail, easily broken young body there burned a spirit and a love so strong, that Blair Sandburg was perfectly willing to die before he told them anything they could use. 

Or perhaps they were afraid. Afraid of the mad laughter he couldn't stop pouring from his throat. Afraid they had snapped his mind, broken his link to the real world and now his secrets were forever locked in his head, beyond their reach. 

It didn't matter. 

Only after they had thrown the torn, naked, bleeding body onto the filth-smeared straw in an ice-cold cell did the laughter die and the tears begin, one last word sobbed through broken lips. 

"jim..." 

* * *

He was on his way. 

Tearing a motor bike he had liberated from the Germans by the simple act of blowing the SS Sturmbannfuhrer riding it clean out of the saddle with a single shot up the twisting winding road leading to what was once a proud castle. Mind gone, quite probably insane, intent on taking on an entire SS garrison. 

But maybe, just maybe, insane enough to survive after the fact. 

* * *

Stopping in a copse of trees, Jim smoothly fitted a silencer onto his stolen Luger, tucking it into the holster of his equally stolen nazi uniform. SS. A Brigadefuehrer, no less. 

"This is insane..." Brown moaned, thudding his head against a nearby tree. "Why do I set myself up for this sort of thing?" 

"Because it's Blair. " Rafe said flatly, triple-checking his bag of explosives. "And we get to kill nazis. " 

Brown shrugged. "Works for me. " 

Ellison tugged the stiff cap with the emblazoned strikes down a little more firmly on his head. "You stay here. I'm going in alone." 

"Hey, hey, take it easy, Jimbo. You go in there like that and they are gonna eat you alive!" Brown stepped forward, but was abruptly cut off as Jim wrapped a hand around his throat. 

"Stay. Here." The Leftenant growled, forcing the smaller man up against a tree. 

"Ellison!" with difficulty, Rafe managed to unwrap the hold. "Jim, Jim don't do this. Brown's a good one, remember? He's on our side." 

The OSS operative blinked, then took his hand away. "I'm going in alone," he repeated quietly, turning without waiting for an answer and rolling the stolen motorbike away through the trees. 

Brown shakily tugged out a crumpled cigarette and lit it. His hands were shaking so bad the flame of the match darted to the left and right of the tip before they intersected. "He's insane, Brian," he said quietly. "He's gonna get himself killed." 

Rafe looked thoughtfully after the lone wolf stalking silently away. Somehow he wasn't so sure. 

* * *

Jim rolled the motorbike silently through the woods, nearly a half-mile away before swinging back onto the road and kicking the starter. The engine coughed to life, settling into a deep rumbling purr like some giant jungle cat. Twisting the throttle in one gloved hand, he burned forward, mind curiously blank. He wasn't really there any more, it was like watching a stranger control his body, making the moves. 

Maintaining a steady speed, moving towards the garrison, he felt an interior fear scrabbling at his mind, none of it touching his face. Only one name burned through his mind, over and over as he approached, keeping him focused, keeping him from the screaming insanity waiting a bare inch away, a dark devil on his back. 

_Blair_

Stopping the motorbike on the road opposite the forbidding entrance and striding up, Jim threw his body into the arrogant stride all nazi officers adapted. His steely blue gaze and Ubermenschen looks raised no question that he was someone important, and the two soldiers snapped to attention at the sight of his uniform and rank, clicking their heels together and hurrying to open the thick wooden gates on the entrance. 

Jim waited until the gates were half-open, then calmly shot the two soldiers in the back of the head, the silencer turning the cracks of the gun into odd popping sounds. Two bullets, one each, execution style. 

Take no prisoners. 

* * *

Rafe winced as the two soldiers fell, two sacks of dying and dead cells, blood and brains spattering the ground. One of them fell in front of Jim and he casually kicked it out of the way as he moved through the gates, indifferently, the soft corpse nothing but a barrier in his way. Then he was gone, out of their sight. 

Behind the two Maquisards the battered old valaise crackled to life. Brown hurried to it, shoving the headset over his ears and tapping out in reply. The transmission ceased, then he tore it off, looking up, fear on his face. "The FFA got Jim’s transmission," he whispered. "They’re on their way to blow the garrison." 

* * *

Jim walked casually through the compound, ears tight for any skerrick, any whisper that would tell him where Blair was. He was deadly calm, in that place beyond fear, the place where only utter fools and madmen lived, uncaring, a block of carved granite as he acknowledged the salutes thrown his way, leather boots squeaking with every step he took. 

Entering the building he looked around, at the rows and rows of door, and suddenly his hearing seemed to hyperfocus, and he could tell what was behind the wooden barriers. Voices, offices, quarters, screams echoing in his ears as he moved in deeper and deeper into the chamber of horrors. And under it all was a steady beat, thudding in his ears, like an echo of his own pulse, oddly out of sync with the blood pumping through his veins. He shook his head, one hand coming up to shield his ears, trying to shake the strange sensation. Now wasn’t the time to fall apart. After, when there was nothing left, after he had brought Blair’s broken, bleeding body back for a proper burial - and Blair was dead, he hoped for it in a deep part of his heart he never wanted to touch - he could release it, open his hands and let his feelings pour out from the tight dam he had them locked behind, his fears, his sorrow, his guilt, let them take over him and give him the strength to take his own life. 

But not now, dammit! Not when Blair’s body was being desecrated, torn apart, destined for a mass grave, his eyes staring sightlessly at the sky as starved workers with shovels heaped the dirt over his face… 

_No._ Jim clenched his fist until his palm bled, then straightened up and kept walking, only to pound his fist into a wall as the beat returned, louder than before, drawing him in and destroying his concentration. **_STOP IT!_**

And still the beat went on. Thudding, louder and louder, stubborn, refusing to be banished, and Jim suddenly realised what it was that he could hear. 

Blair's heart. 

The knowledge sent a power through him, spurring him on. His lover was still alive. Somewhere, here, his Blair was still alive. 

He tore his way through one hall after the other, hunting the sound, no longer human, some sort of mad animal, sniffing, hearing seeing, searching. The siren call led him to a door and he blew the lock, thrusting it open, falling to his knees. 

That wasn't his Blair. 

It couldn't be. 

Not his Blair with the torn skin on his back, the weeping burns on his arms, the bruised, mashed flesh. Not his Blair with his beautiful hair cut so cruelly short, his slim ankles and wrists covered in blood. Not his Blair. 

Please. 

Then the form moaned and shifted, the mangled face coming into view and Jim wept because it _was_ his Blair. 

"Oh god," he crawled to the crumpled form, reaching out, hands falling short. He wanted so desperately to soothe the smaller man, but didn't know where to start, couldn't even tell where to put his hands on the broken body without causing more pain. 

Jim lightly stroked the cropped hair, the only place he felt safe touching. It felt odd between the gloves and he tore them off with his teeth, reaching out again. "Blair?" 

Blair jerked away, words spilling from the split mouth. "No more...I don't know..." he mumbled brokenly in French. Jim looked down at the uniform he was still wearing and cursed, tearing off the hated black jacket and balling it up, slipping it between his lover's cheek and the cold floor. 

"It's me, Blair," he whispered in English. "Jim." 

The puffy black eyes wandered up and squinted at his face. "...im?" 

"Oui, mon ange," It was breaking his heart, and he let the tears fall freely, mingling with the blood. "Jim." 

The slender fingers, oddly disjointed and broken now, came up, trembling with disbelief. "Jim...?" Blair brushed the tips of those fingers across Jim's cheek again and again, drifting down to touch his shoulders, his chest, splaying out, a palm flat against his beating heart, pushing experimentally, as if to assure himself the other man was real. "Jim?" He struggled upwards, each movement requiring almost more than he had, and tilted his head, pressing his cheek against Ellison's shirt. 

"Jim..." It was the peaceful sigh of a soul at rest, at the end of its search. 

Ellison hesitantly brought his hands up, ghosting his palms across the smaller man, seeking small, uninjured spots on the bruised flesh to pet and soothe. "Blair? Can-" he swallowed, then started again. "Blair, honey? We have to move. We have to leave here. Can you walk, at all?" 

Blair didn't respond to his words, his horribly swollen fingers patting at Jim's torso as he made happy little noises into the strong chest under his head. 

Jim felt something cold clutch his heart and slither down to freeze his guts. "Blair?" 

"No walk..." The reply was a soft mumble as the smaller man drew strength from his lover's presence. "Feet bad. No." He gave a disgusted little grunt, pressing his forehead into Jim's shoulder. "..feet... _hurt_..." He was like a child, fighting with a new and unfamiliar language. "..fire hurt. No." He groaned with frustration, fingers of his good hand twisting deeply into the material under them. "Bad words. Bad words. Wrong. Feet, fire, hurt...bruler." 

Jim's jaw clenched until he could hear the bones grinding, stomach churning into knots. "Burned?" he managed, softly. _Oh god, Blair..._ "They burned your feet?" 

Blair looked up and a brilliant smile split his swollen face. " _Burned._ Feet _burned._ " He lowered his head again and snuggled closer, repeating the word to himself, over and over, as if committing it to memory. 

James Ellison, hardened fighter and trained killer, rested his cheek on top of his lovers head and cried. 

* * *

A low rumble brought him out of his grief, a foreign sound to their little world of pain and heartache. It started deep in his bones and slowly increased, his muscles trembling with it. 

And he realised what it was. 

The planes. After all those hours of frantic calls, cursing himself every time he made a stop, crawling up hills and trees for better reception, repeating the plea for support over and over until he was crying with frustration and his voice shook with anger, the _fucking_ planes were coming now. Too late, too early, they were going to be caught in the middle of a full blown airstrike. 

Like hell. 

Jim tried to lift his lover, but Blair resisted. "Clothes..." 

"I'll get you some clothes, honey.." Jim was almost frantic. "I swear, I'll get you some nice clean clothes, I'll buy you a whole fucking _milliners_ but _we have to move!_ " he could hear the thunder of approaching planes like an earthquake rumble in his head. They had to get out _now_. 

Blair stubbornly refused, slipping once more away from the arms afraid to hold him too tightly. "Clothes _now._ " He either didn't recognise the noise, or was too out of it to care. "Bottom clothes." He ran a hand restlessly down his thigh, absently scrubbing at the welts and burns, not noticing the damage he was doing. "Dirty. Need clothes. _Dignite._ Not top, bottom clothes. Pantalon. _Please._ " 

Jim was lost under the fearful appeal in those blue eyes and nodded. "I'll get you some clothes, bebe," he promised, leaning the smaller man gently down against the floor. Tearing open the door, he slipped out, staring in disbelief at the soldiers going on with every day tasks. What the hell was wrong with them? Couldn't they hear the planes? By rights they should have been a flurry of activity, mounting the Ant-Ac's in the compound, not walking around, looking so relaxed. 

The clipped sound of jackboots against stone caught his attention and he dipped back, hiding behind the door, holding a finger to his lips. The figure seemed to take an eternity to arrive, then the door opened and a black-uniformed officer stepped in. 

Blair whimpered. "No...please..." 

With an evil grin, the officer reached for Blair, and Jim twisted his neck around until it snapped. 

Dropping the lifeless body to the ground, he was horrified to see it land near his partner and hurriedly kicked it away, hands reaching out to soothe the sobbing man. Blair clung to him with an arm around his neck, for a long moment, then pushed him away, reaching down to paw at the body. "Clothes," he demanded. 

Jim felt a feral grin cross his face as the rebellion returned to his lover's eyes and efficiently stripped the corpse. The boots and jacket were thrown across the cell. So was the cap with the emblazoned lightening strikes. Boxers were yanked roughly off limp legs, and Jim knelt in front of Blair. 

"Bottom clothes," the Maquisard nodded, reaching out and touching them. He shook his head and corrected himself. " _Shorts._ On me. Now." 

Despite the urgency throbbing through his blood, the engine vibrations shivering his entire body, Jim was gentle, slowly lifting each foot to slide them into the starched material, carefully gripping above the bloody anklets, tears springing to his eyes at the sight of the damaged flesh, the angry red blisters and broken skin. "Oh Christ...Blair..." 

A touch on his shoulder brought him back. "Later." 

He held the pained gaze for a long moment before nodding and sliding the boxers up, lifting them tenderly over each cut and burn until they sat at the bottom of Blair's thighs. "Blair -" 

Sandburg nodded and shifted forward, each breath a painful gasp as he hooked his hand around his lover's neck, lifting himself off the floor a scant inch. 

A scant inch was all Jim needed and he pulled the boxers up the rest of the way, slinging them low to avoid the marks of a brutal beating, hands resting either side of Sandburg's waist as the smaller man cried silently into his shoulder. Carefully, Jim curled a hand under the Maquisard's backside, the other cradling the back of the cropped head as he lifted his lover in his arms like a child, holding him to his chest, the smaller man sitting on his arm. 

Blair tried to wrap his legs around Jim's waist for support, but they wouldn't co-operate. He settled for his arms around the strong neck, the muscles under his palms lulling him into a sense of safety. Resting his head into the soft crevice between his lover's neck and shoulder he closed his eyes. Jim was here. He was safe now. Jim would get him out. And if he couldn't...a quick death, one borne out of love, at least, rather than the endless pain and humiliation. 

Jim stroked his hand across the smaller man's hair one last time, then picked up his gun, starting out the door. The soldiers were finally starting to respond to the thunder of the planes, hurrying to assigned duty positions in an orderly, trained fashion. Meticulous to the end. 

Jim watched them scurry around like black insects, judging elevation, calculating degrees for the weaponry. His urge to tear every fucking nazi he saw apart warred with the need to get his mate to safety, and reason won. With a final glance down, he slipped to a stairwell, cradling his lover to his chest, ready to destroy anything that got in his way. 

* * *

Eight decrepit old Curtiss P-40's from the Free French Airforce came screaming down from the early dawn sky and blew in the front end of the prison, the force of the exploding brick and wood knocking the gestapo and Waffen-SS soldiers off their feet, flinging them around before they even had a chance to fire at the aircraft. A few of the 20-millimetre MK151 anti-aircraft cannon, primed and ready to fire exploded with the shock, taking out the teams ready to use them. 

Jim staggered into a wall against the violence of the explosions, but kept a grip on his lover, forcing his feet to move, legs to walk, determined to escape with his precious cargo. Blair flinched at the sound, the rush of air brushing against his torn back nearly making him scream. He sank his teeth deep into already bruised and bloodied lips as he clung to his protector, the need for silence somehow paramount, as if his voice could be distinguished from the shouted orders and screams of the dying. 

Jim crossed the compound, keeping to the walls, kicking and shooting anything that came close. He heard the roar of engines as the Tomahawks came around again, the clatter of the guns as they started strafing runs, pinning the German soldiers down as prisoners ran and crawled into the safety of the nearby forest. 

Taking a lull, Jim started through the mess that used to be the front of the Garrison, a mad run, his gun tossed aside as his free hand came up to cradle the back of Blair's head, pressing it into his shoulder for protection, his arm around the slim legs clutching hard enough to leave bruises. He ran with the speed of the possessed, hearing the ominous crackle of Amitol sparking and knowing they had precious few seconds before the weapons store went up. 

They were on the edge of the forest when it happened. 

Like the biggest banger in history, the weapons store blew, cracks following each other in quick succession, one after the other, like a series of giant footsteps shaking the ground as the explosions from the easily flammable materials set off the heavier stuff. The nazis had stored enough weaponry to fight off an army. 

And they blew themselves straight to hell with it. 

Jim vanished into the trees, melting from view as if he belonged in a forest primeval. Blair lifted his head with the last of his strength, gazing over his lover's shoulder, blue eyes taking in the final sight of the prison, burning out of control, flames dripping from the upper levels to join the conflagration on the ground. He saw the watch towers topple into the compound, saw the sparks from the impact fly high into the air and wept for the utter stupidity of it all. All the agony and pain. All the lives lost. Resting his forehead into the strong warmth of his lover, he let the darkness take him, the flames dancing behind his closed lids. 

* * *

The Maquis spun around, weapons at the ready as the pair rustled through the bushes, only to stop and stare, faces blanching. 

"Oh Christ." Rafe dropped his gun, one hand reaching out to fall trembling back at his side. "Is he..." It was hard to believe a body so horribly broken could still draw breath. 

"No." Jim's voice was terse. That was one thing he felt horribly guilty for being glad of. The nazis could bring a person to the edge of insanity and beyond, resources and knowledge at their command that were almost unthinkable to the civilised world. They could break, maim, torture until they had what they wanted, all without seriously endangering the life of their plaything. "He's alive." 

As if to prove his point, Blair shifted and moaned in his arms, and James Ellison forgot anything else existed. Shoving past the shell-shocked men, he pawed through the paltry supplies they had brought, ripping the top off a canteen and lowering himself to the ground. 

Carefully, slowly, each movement taking an eternity, he shifted his lover to lay sideways in his lap, propped against his chest and pressed the canteen to the dry lips. 

Blair gulped greedily at the water, then pushed it away, doubling over and convulsing weakly as it came back up, crying in frustration. Tears tracking down his own face, Jim eased him back up and offered the water again. "Little sips, take little sips, " he murmured, voice a whisper. Blair complied, and this time the water stayed down. 

Brown came forward, shrugging out of his ragged jacket, holding it forward and draping it over the injured man's shoulders. Blair jerked away, a cry escaping his lips before the fabric had time to do more than lightly brush his back, and Jim tore the material out of the musician's hands with a growl, throwing it away into the underbrush. "No one touches him, you hear?" he snarled. "No one comes _near_ him!" 

"Jim," once again, Rafe's calm tones broke through his anger. "Jim, we have to go." Ellison nodded once, jerkily, then gathered up his lover in his arms, slowly, gently, but Blair wailed against even that gentle touch, torn and abused nerve endings screeching to life, screams of agony pouring louder and louder out of an already hoarse, agonised throat. 

Jim wanted to tighten his grip on the frail form but couldn't for fear of hurting him further. He wanted to ease his lover down onto a soft surface, take away the pain but he couldn't, there was no comfort in the cold woods, no drugs to soothe the pain, nothing but black smoky air and the crackle of feeding flames, so he wept with the smaller man, so proud of his lover when he stopped crying and held it in, held so much of it in, teeth biting clear through his lip without a whimper as Ellison stood, silent tears tracking endlessly down his bruised cheeks until he faded into merciful darkness. 

Rafe and Brown had reclaimed the motorbike when the first explosions started, and Ellison settled himself in the sidecar with his precious burden, hardly realising when the motor was started, when they began to move away, his whole soul focused on his lover's unconscious form. 

Blair faded in and out again before they arrived at La colle-sur-loup, each jolt and twist in the long, curling road proving too much. Jim picked the smaller man up in his arms, and hurried inside the house Megan had claimed for an aid station, feeling new blood seep through the sleeves of his shirt, hearing the soft breathing at his chest jiggle with every step he took. He barged through the door, thin wood no obstacle to a well-placed kick, too much hurry to turn the knob as he stormed through the rooms and laid Blair gently on his stomach onto a faded white sheet. 

And then he stopped. Looked. And fell to his knees, sobbing, one hand reaching out to smooth the curls away from the battered face, except there were no more curls left to smooth, the chopped ends horribly blunt to his fingers, the pad at the end of each digit brushing over the abrupt ends, over and over, feeling more and more, until it was as if his entire world existed only of those oily, ragged hairs. 

"Jim?" a soft, choked sob broke through to him as Megan entered the room, her eyes wide with horror, both for the form on the bed, and the screaming pain in the eyes of the man knelt beside it. "Oh god..." 

* * *

Blair was still mercifully unconscious as they began cleaning his wounds, a catalogue of pain. Washing the blood from his back, inch by agonising inch to reveal the marks of torture. Some were thin lacerations, almost as if from the snap of a whip, others were red and pulpy, like some kind of ground beef after a vicious beating. Jim closed his eyes, cursing everything he knew, all the intelligence they had that painted so clearly in his mind what his lover had been through, day after day. In some places, the layers of skin were almost completely gone, whether flayed or cut, Jim didn't want to know. He murmured a prayer as every new mark was uncovered, every new pain, his mind roiling and twisting in on itself, gibbering a litany of damning curses and guilt. If he hadn't let go. If he'd kept Blair with him. If only he had gotten there sooner, sooner... 

Megan's face was pale and distant as she worked, turning bowl after bowl of clean, fresh water pink, washing away the dirt and filth, hiding the reality behind clean bandages torn from a sheet. One wrist, then the other, moving down to seal the bloodied ankles, then back up to Sandburg's left hand, to the fingers splayed and bent like some dark comedian's idea of pretzels. 

"They broke them. Snapped them like little twigs." The soft voice brought both their heads up. Blair was awake, bruised cheek pressed deep into the pillow. "Only the left hand." He turned his head slowly, shifting against the pillow and brought his right hand up to his nose, flexing it curiously. "They sounded so funny at first...like little biscuits being stepped on?" 

"Oh god, Blair..." Jim choked out, guts churning and twisting at the images until he thought he was going to vomit. He stared at the nurse's gentle hands as they worked, wondering how she kept them from trembling under the force of the hideous words. 

"After the first few, I didn't notice the sound any more." Blair rolled his head to face them again, detached from the agony of his injuries, as if relating an accident that occurred to a vague acquaintance. "They said I needed my right hand to sign a confession," he remarked absently, entranced by the way Megan's skilful fingers wound the bandages holding the splints in place. "When that didn't work, they burned me." 

_Stop it!_ Jim screamed in the silence of his mind. He wished he could jam his hands over his ears as the words went on and on in that soft, disconnected voice, wished he could run and hide, scream his rage at everything. But he couldn't. 

So he sat there, stomach and fingers twisting and jumbling, a little more of his heart breaking at each monstrous syllable. 

"It felt hot, like a fire...hurt, smelled like...bacon? I thought it was funny...not Kosher...I think I screamed, my throat hurt.." Megan soothed a cool cloth over his face and he blinked tiredly. "Then they took these.." Blair's brow furrowed and he mumbled a word in French. "Wires? These little wires, they sparked and spat..." 

"GOD!" Jim couldn't stand it any more, he bolted to his feet and out the door, stomach rebelling against everything in it as the words followed him, resounding in his ears long after he should have been out of earshot. 

_"...they put them on my...my..."_ another mutter in French. _"...testicules?"_

With a choked mewl, Jim doubled over in a corner, heaving the contents of his stomach out, over and over, until there was nothing left to give. Scrunching his eyes against the images, he sank back against the wall and slid to the floor, head tilted back and tears burning acid trails from the corners of his eyes and down the sides of his face. 

_"...it hurt so much, it hurt, it hurts....why won't it stop...?"_

Jim didn't know how long he stayed there. An eternity. An aeon, tears welling up, more and more, a never ending rain dripping from his cheeks to spatter the floor. 

Megan stepped out and closed the door softly behind her. "He's asleep," she whispered, a torn look in her eyes. Then she fell down beside him, burying her face in her hands, and wept. 

Jim reached out and pulled her to him, for her comfort or his own, he didn't know as they clung to each other, trying desperately to wipe away the hurt with simple human contact. 

* * *

After a while, Jim straightened and eased Megan away.  Blair was awakening - he didn’t know how he knew, didn’t _care_ how he knew, only knew the knowledge that his lover would be waking up alone and in pain. 

Approaching that door took almost all the courage he had, the image of the beloved body tortured and bloody tearing at his mind, his soul, the daemon of reality hidden behind that smooth wood he pressed his hands to, the cold metal knob that turned under his fingers, the narrow bed in the centre of the room that smelt of blood and sulphur powder, water hanging in the air like tears, torn strips of bandages rolled neatly on the chest of drawers under the cross of a god that had deserted them and destroyed them so many times. 

Megan had tied  a sheet around his lover, the corners fastened to the bedposts and suspended above the prone figure so the touch of the material wouldn’t irritate the torn flesh, yet still provide some measure of comfort, but Blair still shivered in the warmth of the room, body shaking with pain and tears. 

Hesitantly, Jim squatted by the bed and stroked Blair’s hair.  He was so unsure now, baby steps, he didn’t know what to do, how to act, what to say.  The danger was over, his driving force, the sureness dissipated and the danger gone, leaving only the memories, the aftermath. 

Blair shut his eyes tight, lips curled inwards tightly against his teeth to still the cries and Jim touched his cheek, concerned by how cold the soft flesh was.  Stripping off his own clothes and pulling away the sheet, he warmed his lover the only way he could think, skin to skin, gladly giving his own heat.  Gently easing his arms under Blair he lifted him and slid onto the mattress as a buffer, each cry and moan as he shifted his lover tearing at his soul, until he was below the younger man, cradling him to his chest, feeling every blunt, chopped end as he stroked his hair. 

"I'm sorry..." Blair whispered, over and over like a mantra. "..so sorry..." tears grew from the blackened eyes to trickle down the bruised and cut cheeks. 

Jim caught each tear between his fingers like precious jewels. "There's nothing to be sorry for my love," he replied in like voice, each touch a gentle ghost of sensation. "Never." 

"Oui," he looked down at his splinted and bandaged hand, raised it to touch the burns on his arms, the marks on his face. "I didn't...die." 

"Blair!" 

"I am...wrong. _Sale._ " He turned his face, trying to hide from the man holding him so gently. "So dirty....I should have gone. Died, un sacrifier for the resistance....cleaned with my blood..." he sobbed openly, shivering, alternately clutching and pulling away from his lover. "Don't look at me, Jim, please. _Don't!_ " 

Jim gently took his face between his palms. Turned it to face his own. Leaning up, he gently pressed his lips to the high forehead in a benediction, feeling the desperate trembling slowly leave the thin frame. 

"Jim -" 

"Shh..." he gently pressed a hand to the back of Blair's head, urging him to lie still. "Rest. Heal, mon 'tite cochon," he felt the other man's eyelids blinking at his chest, like little butterfly whispers, slower and slower. "That's it," he breathed, slowly stroking his fingers over the few patches of unbroken skin left. "Rest...." 

With a final exhalation Blair relaxed completely, the pain from his wounds and his own jumbled mind finally breaking into blessed oblivion. 

Jim shifted slightly, careful of the other man, bringing one hand up to cup the back of his lover's skull, the other drifting down, fingers splaying to gently rest on a bruised hip. His Blair was in his arms, safe, alive. And Jim was going to keep it that way, even if it meant killing every single German left in the world, even if it cost him his life. 

Even if it cost him that single precious fragment of his soul he had so jealously guarded throughout the war. 

He made a soothing noise as Blair shifted, his thumb brushing away the subtle lines of pain present even in sleep. No matter what it cost him, he would see Blair safe. It was a promise he swore with his entire being. One he meant to keep. 

* * *

"Non..... _NON!!_ " The heart-rending cry tore the still night air apart as Blair screamed and twisted in the grips of a nightmare. Jim jerked awake at the sound, hands cupping his lover's face. 

"Blair?" 

The instant his hands touched, Blair bucked against him, fighting with all the strength left in his frail body as his mind relived the agony locked away in that single, sterile room. " _Je vous en supplie!! Je ne -_ " he threw his head back and screamed. 

Jim desperately stroked his hand over the back of Blair's head, trying, wanting to hold him closer, but afraid of re-opening the terrible gouges on the smaller man's back. There was no blanket, no sheet to cling to the suppurating flesh, their naked bodies pressed against each other for comfort and a little warmth. 

With a final despairing gasp, Blair collapsed bonelessly against the strong body trying to keep him warm, breathing slowing as tears rolled down his face, chest heaving against an agony too terrible to be borne. "I d-don't know...any...thing...." 

Jim kissed the trembling face, kissed each tear as they fell, the salt tart on his tongue. He murmured reassurances, not in French, or English, or any other recognisable language, just a continual, soothing mantra, a little prayer keeping them in their own world, sealed away, safe. 

He didn't know how long they lay there like that, a few seconds, minute, hours ...years. Agony compressed and expanded, wrenching through twin souls. Finally Blair raised his head, blue eyes awash with tears. "Jim...?" he whispered tremulously. 

The taller man smiled gently down at him. "Oui, mon amour." 

"Jim..." Blair rested his forehead briefly on Jim's breastbone then struggled up, each inch of his flesh sliding slowly against his lover's as he shifted upwards. "Jim...Jim..." He raised himself painfully up and propped an elbow either side of Ellison's face, kissing the other man's lips, then bowing his head, a contact between their brows, noses brushing, souls entwining. "Jim..." He rubbed his forehead against the older mans then kissed his lips again. "Forgive...me?" 

Jim leaned up and returned the kiss, deepened it. "Nothing to forgive," he whispered into the mouth against his own. Reaching up, he took Blair's broken hand in his and turned his head, pressing the bandages to his lips in a healing kiss. " _Rien._ " 

And finally, Blair believed. 

" _Jim!_ " he spoke it as if for the first time, all his fears and daemons dropping away, dying at the sound of that name. "Mon amour. Mon amoureux. Mon vie," he gasped, dropping hungry, loving kisses all over the taller man's face, down his neck, his chest, until the last of his strength gave out and he simply lay there, head pillowed in the crook of Jim's neck, lips still moving faintly against the other man's throat. "Mon dieu," he whispered against the pain of his wounds, not caring if it was blasphemy, not even sure if it was. Just the statement of a simple fact. "My god, Jim. My god." 

Jim caught his breath at the whispered words. The depth, the belief behind them. To be called a god. One man's god, a deity with a single worshipper, all he needed. But not a worshipper, someone to smile down upon from a dais, but an equal, a partner, a lover, a 

_Mate._

The knowledge hit him like a freight train, eyes flying open from the ghostly impact. It was something he had known from the beginning, yet only just discovered. The closing of a circle. A joining of two souls. This wasn't some desperate buddy fuck, or a dramatic war-torn love affair to be remembered, but moved onwards from, this was for life. And beyond. From this life to the next and to the next, through each incarnation a calling for reunion, a continuation. 

Forever. 

* * *

And then the healing began. 

It was slow at first, nightmares tearing at a fragile mind already teetering on the thin edge of sanity, only to be drawn back, soothed, loved again by Jim’s tender touches and gentle words. A broken body trying pitifully, but so hard, to attempt the tasks that had come so easily before. 

Blair swore and wept at the feeling of helplessness every time Jim had to hold him steady on the cracked chamber pot when he had to go, every time damaged nerves betrayed him and he made a mess, every time his frail and damaged body failed him, again and again. 

And each time, Jim would hold him close, clean him up, wrap him in a blanket of safety with gentle touches and soft words, using the strength that had been trained to kill to tenderly support the smaller man too weak to even sit up unassisted. 

Because of his back, Blair couldn't sit reclined and meals were agonisingly painful affairs, propped sideways against his lover's chest, sipping at the cup of weak soup pressed to his lips, following the gentle pleads for him to drink it all, eat a little more, large hands stroking his hair as a soft voice told him stories of all the places they would go when he was well. Places untouched by the war, places of sunshine and happiness, places where it was never cold, places where they could be together and sleep without being rudely awakened by the dreaded rattle of gunfire or the scream of a dying man. 

The names and places became embedded in his mind, sometimes so real he could reach out and touch them in his dreams, sometimes as pale and insubstantial as mist. _Arizona. Mexico. Palestine. Chile. Darwin._ He repeated the names to himself over and over before he slept, his mangled left hand clutching at Jim's, nestled close to the strong body, a constant physical reminder of the love between them. 

Or Peru, with the tribes he had read about, people who had never seen a gun or a grenade, or any of the filthy weapons of war he had become so horribly intimate with. People so unused to killing and murder they would welcome strangers with open arms and hearts. Places he could heal, places he could see himself, strong and whole, with his lover, living the life of peace and safety he had yearned for so long. Places where he would no longer rage at the uselessness of his body as it failed to perform the most simple of tasks, places where he was no longer a broken, mangled casualty of war but a man, a real man, one who could spend his days learning. 

That was all he wanted to do, his entire life. Learn. Gain knowledge. Not how to strip and clean a Sten with a screwdriver and a scrap of rag, not dry knowledge sucked out of a thousand books, but to learn of _people,_ of _life._

Of love. 

Holding onto his lover through every dark night and pain-filled day, he burned his resolve, keeping himself, waiting for the time he was healed and it was over, the time they could leave, the time they could love, real love, not tender moments snatched between the carnage.   
  
Time stretched slowly on, days bleeding into a week, and he slowly began to heal, gradually gaining the strength he had lost in five short days, his physical body mending under Megan's watch, his heart and mind under the tender ministrations of his lover. Taking joy every time his body obeyed him, every time he made a choice, remembering all to clearly the time when it wouldn't, when the choices were never his. 

Jim revelled in each moment, each of those glorious days they had. Days of peace, up there in that little place, days to tenderly rediscover each other, the smile breaking over his lover's face, each caress like the first time they touched, each kiss like they were the first lovers ever on the earth. 

Sex was impossible, after... his mind shied away from the thought. They needed time to mend, one physically and emotionally, the other spiritually, and they spent those days together, talking, loving, healing. 

But under it all, an all-consuming hate prickled at Jim, seeping under his skin and making him itch, making him gasp awake at night, hands clutching around a phantom neck. But he swallowed it, each mouthful becoming more and more bitter. Waited. Until it became too much, the acid eating at his soul. Until he was sure Blair was strong enough to be left in the care of the people of La colle-sur-loup, who were more than happy to watch over the little man they had taken into their hearts. 

And then he went out. Gun in hand, no longer human but a solid mass of rage. All his training, all his skills came together as he slipped through the woods, to the few remaining German outposts left after the US Task Force Butler began their invasion - even the denizens of the self-proclaimed 'super-race' could tell they were gone, defeated, and were now running for the most part - mauling, maiming, killing anything with a swastika, or a hated blue-grey uniform. 

And with each corpse his anger grew, knowing he had been cheated of his vengeance, knowing that he could kill and kill, until there was nothing left and it would still never be enough. 

Until there _weren't_ any more. 

Between General Patch's men and the uprising of French people until now too timid to fight back, the nazis were gone. Dead or captured, or running for some sort of asylum the neighbouring countries would not give them. 

And Jim realised it was done. Over. _Finished._ Nothing left to do, for him at least. 

The war was over. 

He should have felt something, anything. Not this...emptiness. He'd longed for this moment, dreamed of it. It had been his raison d'etre for so long, and now it was here, he felt... 

Nothing. 

Looking down at the Beretta in his hand, he weighed it thoughtfully for a moment, then threw it to the ground. He didn't need it any more. 

Out of force of habit, he picked it up again, tucking it in the back of his pants, then moved to the stream tricking nearby, one of hundreds trickling through the hills of France. 

Rinsing his face in cupped hands, he stopped and stared at his reflection in the rippled water, the unshaven jaw, the gaunt cheeks. 

The cold, dead soul screaming from behind his eyes. 

The war had won, after all. 

* * *

With a snarl he made a fist, plunging it deep into the cold water, smashing the image. It was wrong, lying, it couldn't be true. He couldn't have come this far, done this much, to lose. 

The water splashed and churned, then gradually faded back to the same mocking image. And the knowledge smashed into him that he'd lost, after all. Failed. Gone, destroyed. How could he go back now? How could he offer his beautiful Blair an animated corpse? 

Jim stumbled and fell on his backside as his legs slid from underneath him. How could Blair _ever_ want him? A killer, a _man?_ His Blair was meant to have a family, a huge one, blue-eyed mop heads running around, poking their noses into everything, sitting on his knee and listening to his stories. What could Jim offer to compare? Humiliation, back in the States. Ridicule. Disgusted glances and forced separation. In France even, England, anywhere. 

It could never be. 

He felt his mouth open around a scream of agony, so powerful it was silent, the feeling crushing his lungs until there was no air for sounds. Never. Jamais. Perdue, lost, all his little hopes and dreams destroyed with the war. 

He had to leave. Run back to England, back to Caroline with his tail between his legs. Or...take his own life. A life that didn't mean anything to him any more, not without Blair. He couldn't go back, not now, not to see the look on the smaller man's face, the disgust twisting it, directed at the man who couldn't save him, the man who left him to the murderers of his people. 

But to go in secret, one last time, to see his lover, from a distance... 

Jim nodded to himself, head jerking up and down like a marionette's. One last look. Just one, then he would go. 

He set off through the gathering dusk, heading through the forest, no longer on the alert, not caring. One last look... 

He slipped through the trees, feet falling lightly on the leaves, catlike, the movements of his entire body oddly feline, slinking through, eeling past trunks and rocks, padding through the day that slipped into night with the sure-footedness of a jungle animal. 

And then he reached his destination, so sure, just one look, that was it, one look and he would be gone, an utter, complete, heartbreaking certainty that fell around his feet and smashed at his first sight of his lover. 

And he knew he couldn't leave. 

Not for Blair, not for their love, not anything but the pure, selfish realisation that _he didn't want to go._   Like the feeling he used to have as a child on chilly mornings - not his married life, hell _inside_ the bed had been colder than out - the feeling of stretching time out, staring at the clock, promising himself that in another minute he would get up, leave...then another...then another...until he finally admitted defeat and wished he could make time stop. 

Make time stop. 

He hung there in the shadows, feeling the minutes stretch out past him and slip into the past, just looking at the smaller man. Knowing he could never leave, retreat into the past but too afraid to go forward. Trapped in time.  Make time stop. 

Blair was reclined in a old chair on the porch, a brightly-covered blanket draped over his legs. Jim watched as his lover gingerly shifted forward to scratch at the head of a stray cat mewling around his ankles. Leaning down, he offered a scrap of meat to the animal, chuckling as it took the treat from his fingers, licking them clean. With a final affectionate tickle to the fuzzy ears he stiffly leaned back into the pillows stuffed behind him, looking out into the darkness. 

Megan came out of the door behind him. "Sandy?" she asked sleepily, one hand ruffling through her hair. "Are you coming in? It's getting late." 

"Just a little longer." Blair didn't take his eyes off the night, eyes trying to pierce the blackness. 

With a smile, she carded her fingers through his short hair. "Not too longer, ok?" she said, tugging her bedclothes a little more firmly around her. "It's getting cool. And I want to get to bed too, you know." She slapped a hand to her neck, then looked at it. "The mozzies must be eating you alive!" 

"Just a little longer," Blair repeated. "I just want to see if Jim.." he looked down and studied his hands. 

"Hey..." Megan knelt beside the chair, one hand coming up to stroke a thin arm. "He'll be ok. Jim's been through a lot tougher than this. Besides, there's no nazis left. The yanks have cleared them out. We're safe, it's just gonna take Jim a little time to get back." 

"I know," Blair's voice was soft as his fingers clenched and splayed, playing with the threads of his blanket. "I just...I'm not sure..." He looked down at his bent hand, shutting his eyes briefly against the flaw, one of many, he knew,  then gazed out into the night again, voice an almost silent exhalation. "Does he want me?" 

Jim stepped out of the darkness, and into the light cast out from the building. "Oui," he whispered. "If you want...me?" 

"Jim..." Blair breathed, holding tightly to Megan's arm as she helped him from the chair. "Jim!" he took one slow step, then another, the blanket falling away as he lurched his feet. "JIM!" he stepped away from the supportive hold and stumbled across the ground, his entire body protesting and screaming, being ignored as he made his way to his lover. Stopping short, he brought his hand up, a breath away from the handsome face, tracing the shape of the strong jaw, the proud nose and lips, sculpting him anew on the cold night air. "Jim..." 

Ellison caught the moving hand and pressed it to his cheek, closing his eyes and revelling in the contact, as if for one last time, then he stepped back, letting the hand fall limply by his lover's side. 

"Jim!" Megan came up beside them, reaching out to touch one arm. "Are you ok? You were gone for so long, we...OOOMPH!" all the air was pressed out of her lungs as Jim wrapped an arm around her, pressing her to him in a hug. 

"Thank you," he murmured into her hair. "For the picnic, for Blair, for everything..." 

Blair stood there for a long moment, thin frame trembling, terror and loss stark in his wide blue eyes. Then Jim reached out and took his hand again, pressing it to his lips. "Allo, mon 'tite cochon," he greeted, a smile tickling the corners of his mouth. "Comment allez-vous? 

"JIM!" With a mad shout Blair threw himself forward, burying himself in the older man's arms as he showered him with kisses. "Jim." _kiss_ "Love you." _kiss_ "Mon amor." _kiss_ "Mon vie." 

"Mon dieu," Jim agreed, throwing his arms around the smaller man's hips and lifting him into the air, smiling as Blair wrapped his legs around his waist, carrying his mate across the ground to the building, where Megan's mad shouts had already woken most of the other members. "Mon dieu." 

* * *

James Ellison was listed as MIA on the 23rd September 1945. He was buried with full military honours on June 27th, 1946, although his body was never recovered. 

Caroline Ellison put a bunch of roses on her husband's grave. "I'm sorry, Jimmy," she whispered. "I wish things had been different. Maybe..." Wiping her eyes, she walked back to her lover, who put an arm around her shoulders and steered the crying woman away from the cemetery. 

* * *

Jim sighed and snuggled his arms a little tighter around the little bundle of warmth spooned in front of him. Blair turned and kissed his nose, then rolled on top of his lover, taking little tastes of his cheek, his jaw, and finally his lips. Ellison rumbled happily deep in his chest and Blair chuckled as the motion shivered through his entire body. "You like that, oui?" 

Sliding down a little further, he started on the older man's neck as the soft sunlight filtering through the tall trees around them dappled the outside of the hut deep inside the Chopec pass. 

* * *

  
**END**   


* * *

_**End Note:** Before anyone brings it up, yes I know Darwin was bombed by the Japanese during the war. In fact, they had reconnaissance planes come down as far as Bendigo (frighteningly close to where I live, in Melbourne.)  But there was no reason for Jim knowing that at the time._ __

_And no, I have nothing against the majority of the Wehrmacht. My aunt's father was a soldier in the Wehrmacht, and for the most part they were soldiers who were sent to fight with no real idea of what was going on.   (In fact he probably fought against my grandfather in Europe. Back then, they were trying to kill each other.  And here we are, fifty years down the track, and their kids are getting married to each other. Funny how life turns out, isn't it? I still get a giggle when he relates the story of when he surrendered - this tiny little five foot man who didn't know a word of English surrounded by six foot Americans who didn't know a word of German) For the most part, they paid their price with the death of their friends as they fought._ __

_The ones I _do_ have a problem with and _always_ will are the Geheime Staatspolizei (gestapo) the SchultzStaffel  (SS)  and the Waffen-SS  (the military branch of the SS)  They were the ones who knew _exactly_ what was going on, and _exactly_ what they were doing. And they revelled in it._ __

_If there's a hell, I hope they burn in it forever._

As I said earlier, I may have played hard and fast with the characters, but the events in the story actually happened.  A lot of people tend to view the French role in world war two as 'we surrender' and then the Vichy debacle.  This isn't true. A lot of French fought back for the freedom of their country. Families took in Jewish children and swore they were theirs to the death. Priests and pastors faked 'approved' Catholic birth registries.  Without the aid of the French underground and the French Forces of the Interior (the Maquis) thousands more people could have died. 

And still, thousands more _did._ __

Maquis forces sabotaged supply deliveries to Normandy, slowing the nazis down enough for the Allied forces to expand their beachhead. Free French pilots escaped the tyranny in France to mass with DeGaulle's troops in England, then got into Allied planes and flew straight back. They didn't run and hide. They went away, regrouped and came back _armed._

I'm not saying the French were perfect - even as they massed in the Vercors mountains to fight back, they were also jumping in whole-heartedly with the occupying forces.  But they didn't lie back and take it. They fought, and ultimately, won. 

* * *

**Listing of battles/events within the story and their historical counterparts** ****

_Saint-Nizier_   
On June 13 1944, 250 members of the Maquis held off the German attacks. They were overrun on the 15th when the nazis returned with over a thousand men. In the end, the Maquis were holding them off with stones and rocks. 

_Vassieux_   
Vassieux became a Maquis stronghold after the destruction of Saint-Nizier. After establishing radio contact with the Allied forces, they started work on an air strip, so they could recieve much needed and promised supplies.  Their task was to fight the nazis from a secondary point, dividing their forces. 

On the 21 of July 1944, German gliders landed on the airstrip. Many Maquis were killed outright as they ran to meet their 'saviours'.  Over 500 Maquis died that day, and the nazis quickly established a foothold in the town and spread outwards, recieving more soldiers and supplies from air as they moved through the ranges, killing everything they saw. 

In the actual _town_ of Vercors, out of 430 inhabitants, 73 were killed outright, either shot, tortured, or simply set on fire. Others were deported, and 91 Maquis died defending the town. 

The promised Allied Supplies never came. 

_The Step of the Needle_   
On the 22nd of July 1994, twenty three Maquis were wedged in a cave taken under enemy fire. They survived more than thirty hours in a tiny cave, before managing to escape through a fissure in the middle of the night.  Eight wounded died in the cave, another three who were seriously wounded chose suicide. 

* * *

These are just the points I _have_ mentioned. The other patients from the hospital 'where Blair was' hid out in a cave. The nazis found them. Those who could walk, wounded and medical staff alike were marched out into the town square and shot. Those who couldn't were shot on the spot and their bodies rolled down the slope. Six nurses were sent to Ravensbruck and never heard of again. And again and again, over and over, and _they still wouldn't give up._ the Maquis regrouped, attacked, regrouped, attacked. Not just the French, the Belgians, Polish, Germans who hated the fact they were a part of a race swept up in  insanity. Thousands more.  And I have nothing but respect for them. That's what I think of every time someone mentions occupied Europe.  Not just the evil, but the power, the courage. People fighting for what was right, drawing a line, making a stand. _No more_. 

Rest in peace. You deserve it. 

I apologise to the survivors of the holocaust, and those who go after, for not covering their incredible strength and courage in the face of certain death in more detail. I just found out that apparently some other countries don't have the holocaust knowledge that we do in Australia. Books like _Elli_ and _Night_ are required reading in our high schools. An entire semester of my year 12 (final year high school) was dedicated to this. It wasn't an option, it was compulsory, part of our education. I've been to the Holocaust Centre in Melbourne, spoken to survivors. And it saddens me to hear that other countries don't enforce this as part of their standard school curriculum. 

If we don't know how it happened the first time, how do we stop it from happening again? _How do we stop it now?_

* * *

End Nom De Guerre.


End file.
